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E.  H. 
OLD  BOOK  SHOP 

2130  Oxford  St., 
Berkeley,      . 


ELLESLEY 
LYRICS. 


POEMS-WRITTEN-BY-SrVDENTS 
ANDGRADVATES-OFWELLESLEY 
COLLEGE,WITH-!NTR.ODVCT1ON 
BY  ALICE-FREE  MAN-PALMER; 
PH.D.  L.H.D. 


CHQSEN-AND-PVBLISHED. 
BYCOR.DELIA-C 


COPYRIGHTED    1896 

BY 
CORDELIA    C.   NEVERS. 


FRANK  WOOD,  PRINTER, 
BOSTON. 


TO 
THE  MEMORY  OF 

fienrp  foiule  Durant 

THE  POET 

WHOSE  POEM  WAS  WELLESLEY  COLLEGE 
THIS  BOOK  IS  LOVINGLY 

Dedicated 


264026 


Alt,  pause  a  moment  I  reverently  listen 
To  one  dear  voice  whose  music  lingers  low 
Wherever  W aborts  tranquil  waters  glisten, 
Or  Wabarfs  violets  grow. 

Where'er  the  cross  uplifts  its  death-won  splendor 
On  these  fair  towers,  that  thrilling  voice  is  heard, 
Urging,  in  tones  unutterably  tender, 
The  same  familiar  word : 

"  Christ  first,  my  children!11     O  thou  star  like  spirit, 
Gone  with  thy  kindred  stars  to  shine  and  burn, 
May  we,  who  now  thy  life  and  love  inherit, 
Thy  deepest  lesson  learn! 

Christ  first  and  last ;  His  will  our  quenchless  glory ; 
His  mission  ours ;  His  service  for  our  throne* 
Why  doubt  we  of  our  days1  unfinished  story  ? 
'Tis  written  in  His  own. 

—MARION  PEL  TON  GUILD. 


EVERY  college  has  its  two  sides.  On  the  one 
hand,  it  is  a  place  of  lectures,  libraries,  labora- 
tories, professors,  studying  students;  a  place  for  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge,  and  for  increasing  the  extent 
of  what  is  already  known.  Science  dominates  it, 
irrespective  of  temperaments,  wishes,  and  emotions. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  a  place  where  live  the 
chosen  and  ardent  young;  where  life  is  maturing, 
friendships  forming,  aspirations  taking  shape,  the 
ideals  of  the  home  for  the  first  time  comparing 
themselves  with  those  of  the  larger  world.  Here 
dwell  hope,  admiration,  intimacy  with  noble  books 
and  persons,  while  gladness  in  these,  and  a  daily 
new  sense  of  personal  power,  spread  everywhere  an 
air  of  romance  and  of  expanded  existence.  On  the 
former  of  these  two  sides,  the  studious,  examinations 
report,  and  the  college  records.  Such  little  books  as 
this  collection  of  verses  tell  the  story  of  the  other, — 
the  human  and  romantic. 


For  in  these  poems  we  catch  sight  not  only  of  a 
multitude  of  incidents  in  the  daily  life  of  a  company 
of  brilliant  girls,  but  we  are  permitted  to  know  the 
girls  themselves,  to  share  their  dreams,  their  friend- 
ships, their  merriment,  their  religious  aspiration, 
their  ordered  thought,  natural  English,  and  charm- 
ing rhythms.  He  would  be  a  hard  person  to  please 
who  did  not  enjoy  society  so  cultured,  so  witty,  so 
truly  womanly,  too.  Let  whoever  fears  that  college 
life  will  render  girls  unfeminine,  read  and  be  reas- 
sured. And  let  him,  too,  read  who  already  knows 
that  an  earnest,  intellectual  life  furnishes  the  proper 
nutriment  to  vigorous  health,  happy  dispositions, 
warm  affections,  winning  graces,  and  devout  hearts. 
This  is  the  soil  and  these  the  products  of  the  Col- 
lege Beautiful. 

ALICE  FREEMAN  PALMER. 


Contents. 


"  Agnus  Dei."    Josepha  Virginia  Sweetser         ....  78 

All  Hail  to  the  College  Beautiful.    Katharine  Lee  Bates          .  38 

All-Hallow  E'en.    Agnes  S.  Cook 94 

Alma  Mater.    Anne  Barrett  Hughes 109 

Alone.    Maud  Thompson 71 

Angelus,  The.    Josephine  P.  Simrall 40 

Apart.     Gertrude  Spalding  Henderson 114 

April.    Mary  Russell  Bartlett 74 

At  Sunset.    Edith  E.  Tuxbury 129 

Barriers.    Helen  Worthington  Rogers 68 

Beatrice  Portinari.    Mary  S.  Daniels 09 

Birthday  in  Heaven,  The.    Mary  Wright  Plummer  .        .        .  134 

Boating  Song.    Kent  Dunlap  Hagler 118 

Boo!  Hoo!     (A  Wellesley  Glee) 92 

By  the  Roadside.    Louise  R.  Loomis 103 

By  Waban  Banks.    Lillian  Corbett  Barnes         .        .        .        .124 

Canterbury  Tales,  The.    Ada  May  Krecker        ....  56 

Carol,  A.     Harriot  Brewer  Sterling 90 

Chaucer.    Mary  Hollands  McLean 104 

Corot.    Clara  Brewster  Potwin 139 

Compensation.    Alice  Welch  Kellogg 88 

Compensation.    Mabel  A.  Carpenter 33 

Consolation.    Agnes  E.  Wood 143 

Country  Children.    Mary  Allison  Bingham        ....  80 
Crossing  the  Ocean.    Charlotte  Fitch  Roberts    .        .        .        .149 

Culture.    Anna  Estelle  Wolfson 52 


Divine  Right  of  Kings,  The.    Mary  Wright  Plummer      .        .  72 

Dolores.    Josepha  Virginia  Sweetser 54 

Easter.    Sara  Coolidge  Brooks 150 

Empty  Nest,  The.    Helen  Barrett  Montgomery         ...  62 

Exeunt.    Lillian  Corbett  Barnes 97 

Foiled.    Sarah  Chamberlin  Weed no 

Four-o'clocks.    Lillian  B.  Quinby 36 

Friendship.    Bertha  Palmer 125 

Friendship.    Josephine  P.  Simrall 82 

George  Birthington's  Washday.    Florence  E.  Homer      .        .  29 

Heart's  Home,  The.    Katharine  Mordantt  Quint       ...  41 

Her  Second  Degree.    Frances  C.  Lance 146 

Hobby,  A.    Mabel  W.  White 77 

H2SO4.    Mary  Eno  Russell 116 

Ideal,  The.    Katharine  Lee  Bates 26 

Idolatry.    KentDunlap  Hagler 76 

If  Life  were  a  Banquet.    Josephine  A.  Cass        .        .        .        .14 

In  Arcadie.    Josephine  A.  Cass 57 

In  College  Days.    Florence  Wilkinson 154 

In  Honorem  :  Henry  F.  Durant.    Mary  Russell  Bartlett .        .  112 

In  Memoriam  :  Helen  A.  Shafer.    Martha  Gause  McCaulley  .  37 

In  the  College  Library.    Cornelia  E.  Green         ....  15 

Invited  by  Mistake.     Sarah  Jane  McNary 100 

Irish  Boat  Song,  An.    Ambia  C.  Harris,  Clara  A.  Jones          .  140 

Isolation.    Charlotte  Rose  Stanley 143 

I  Wonder  if  the  Dying  Leaf.    Martha  Hale  Shackford      .        .  136 

January  in  Virginia.    Lillian  B.  Miner 93 

Knighted.    Mary  Hollands  McLean 98 

Knowledge.    Lillian  B.  Quinby 70 

Lake  Singer,  The.    Kate  Watkins  Tibbals         .        .        .        .152 

Lake  Waban.    S.  Virginia  Sherwood 105 

Lalia.    Florence  Annette  Wing 42 

Lament  of  the  Unathletic  Maiden.    Isabella  Campbell      .        .  83 

Lay  of  the  Lost  Hero,  The.    Cornelia  E.  Green         ...  30 


Le  Pays  du  Tendre.    Abbe  Carter  Goodloe 145 

Life  and  Death.    Mabel  A.  Carpenter 127 

Love  Song.    Lillian  Corbett  Barnes 69 

Love  Song1.    Josephine  P.  Simrall 136 

Lullaby.    Emily  S.  Johnson 115 

Mona  Lisa.    Abbe  Carter  Goodloe 17 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  Sir.    Katharine  Lee  Bates  .        .        .        .120 

Mutation.    Mary  Hefferan 19 

My  College  Girl.    Alice  Welch  Kellogg 64 

My  College  Room.    Mabel  Wing  Castle 51 

My  Lord  the  Sun.    Isabella  H.  Fiske 102 

My  Own.    Mary  Wright  Plummer       ......  34 

My  Sophomore.    Alice  Welch  Kellogg 132 

Never  a  Day  Without  a  Cloud.    Delia  Maria  Taylor          .        .  151 

New- Year's  Wish,  A.    Clara  Brewster  Potwin  ....  135 
Night  Wind  in  Winter,  The.    Martha  Hale  Shackford     .        .129 

October  Rose,  An.    Clara  Brewster  Potwin        ....  95 

Ode.     Florence  Wilkinson 66 

Ode  on  Planting  the  First  Class  Tree.    Clara  A.  Jones     .        .22 

Ode  to  Ninety-Six.    Mary  Hefferan 87 

Ode  to  Wellesley.    Anna  Robertson  Brown  Lindsay        .        .  25 

Old  Year,  The.    Nancy  K.  Foster 91 

Omar  Khayyam.    Cornelia  E.  Green 73 

Our  College  Days.    Katharine  Lee  Bates 13 

Passing  Soul,  The.    Katharine  Lee  Bates 128 

Picture,  A.    Alma  E.  Beale 75 

Red  Roses.    Marion  Pelton  Guild 106 

Rose,  A.    Josephine  P.  Simrall 108 

Seaward.    Ada  S.  Woolfolk  . 60 

Second  Thought,  A.    Florence  Wilkinson          .        .        .        .137 

Senior's  Compliment,  A 144 

Senior  Schedule,  A.    Mary  Hollands  McLean  ....  130 

Sleeplessness.    Florence  Converse 50 

Slender,  Brown-haired  Josephine 65 


Shakespeare.    Charlotte  Rose  Stanley 28 

Shall  I  Tell  You  of  My  Lover?    Theodora  Kyle        .        .        .148 
Singer's  Excuse,  The.    Mary  Russell  Bartlett  18 

Song.    Charlotte  Rose  Stanley 63 

Song  of  Praise,  A.    Florence  E.  Homer 142 

Song  of  Praise,  A.    Marion  Pelton  Guild  .....      43 
Song  of  the  Lotus,  The.    Julia  Stevens  Buffington    .        .        .133 

Spiegel-klarheit.    Anne  Barrett  Hughes 123 

Sunset.    Mary  Hollands  McLean 49 

Tides.    Josephine  A.  Cass *        •        .126 

To .    Mary  Otis  Malone »       »        •     "9 

To  an  Oriole.    AlmaE.Beale 117 

To  Mt.  Monadnock  at  Sunrise.    Evangeline  Kendall        .        .      96 
To  One  I  Love.    Gertrude  Jones  .        .        .        .        »  '      .        .in 

Touch,  A.    Florence  Annette  Wing     , 150 

Tree-day  Song,  A.    Annie  Jerrell  Tenney   .        .        ...     138 

Trust.    Helen  Barrett  Montgomery      ......      20 

Twilight  on  the  Hills.    Anna  Robertson  Brown  Lindsay         .      84 
Violinist,  The.    Margaret  Steele  Anderson  16 

Vivisection.    Frances  C.  Lance 144 

Waking-Time.    Ada  May  Krecker       ......      41 

Wellesley  Democracy.    S 81 

When  the  Mist  came  up  from  the  Marsh.    Sarah  Chamberlin 

Weed 89 

World's  Sleep,  The.    Sarah  Chamberlin  Weed          .        .        .21 


Ulelleskp  Cprics. 


5>ur  College  £>ays* 

OUR  college  days  are  over.     Dost  thou  sigh? 
Nay,  wherefore  ?    For  there  follow  other  days 

And  other  lessons;  other  lips  to  praise 
And  to  condemn.  So  let  the  past  go  by. 
In  truth  we  were  not  idlers,  thou  and  I, 

Though  oft  we  wandered  in  the  woodland  ways, 

And  wronged  the  student's  conscience  by  the  gaze 
We  stole  from  books  to  fasten  on  the  sky. 
Some  tasks  we  shunned,  where  many  tasks  were  set, 

But  never  shunned  each  other.     Was  it  well? 
And  much  we  learned  we  swiftly  shall  forget; 

But  let  no  melancholy  prophet  tell 
That  ever  pride  or  shame,  or  smiles  or  tears, 
Shall  dim  the  friendship  of  our  college  years. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


3f  Stfe  mere  a  Banquet, 

IF  Life  were  a  banquet,  and  Beauty  were  wine, 
And  Being  the  cup  to  contain  it, 
What  duty  had  man  save  at  ease  to  recline, 

Drink  deeply,  and  never  disdain  it? 
If  Life  were  a  banquet,  and  Beauty  were  wine, 
And  Being  the  cup  to  contain  it! 

If  Life  were  a  banquet,  and  Glory  were  wine, 
And  Pain  were  the  strong  bowl  that  held  it, 

Would  any  man  pause  ere  he  quaffed,  or  repine 
At  the  cost,  though  his  heart's  blood  had  swelled  it? 

If  Life  were  a  banquet,  and  Glory  were  wine, 
And  Pain  were  the  strong  bowl  that  held  it! 

If  Life  were  a  banquet,  and  Love  were  the  wine, 
And  pure  lips  alone  touched  the  chalice, 

What  soul  would  refuse  for  a  draught  so  divine, 
To  purge  itself  wholly  from  malice? 

But  Life  ts  a  banquet,  and  Love  is  the  wine, 
And  pure  lips  alone  touch  the  chalice! 

JOSEPHINE  A.  CASS. 


tfye  College  £tbrary. 


TO    L.  E.  W. 

ALONE,  absorbed,  she  sits  and  reads, 
From  heavy  tomes  of  dingy  brown, 
The  history  of  ancient  deeds, 
Of  old  beliefs,  of  worn-out  creeds; 
And,  flooding  all  the  open  space, 
The  sun  shines  in  upon  the  place, 
Rests  lightly  on  that  fresh  young  face, 
Revealing,  in  her  simple  grace, 

Elizabeth  in  cap  and  gown. 

What  though  no  lover  may  adore, 
And  marble  heroes  all  look  down 
With  cold  eyes,  changeless  evermore, 
At  this  sweet  girl,  a  sophomore? 
I  know  no  picture  half  so  fair 
As  she  is,  with  her  dark-brown  hair, 
Her  earnest  face,  her  gentle  air. 
May  Heaven  bless  her,  reading  there,  — 
Elizabeth,  in  cap  and  gown! 

CORNELIA  E.  GREEN. 

The  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
December,  1895. 


Cfye  Dtoltmst* 

BUT  that  one  air  for  all  that  throng!     And  yet 
How  variously  the  magic  strain  swept  through 

Those  thousand   hearts !    I  saw  young  eyes,  that 

knew 

Only  earth's  fairest  sights,  grow  dim  and  wet; 
While  eyes  long  fed  on  visions  of  regret, 

Beheld  the  rose  of  hope  spring  up  from  rue. 

For  some,  the  night-wind  in  thy  music  blew; 
For  some,  the  spring's  celestial  clarinet! 
And  each  heart  knew  its  own :  the  poet  heard, 

Ravished,  the  song  his  lips  could  never  free; 
The  girl,  her  lover's  swift,  impassioned  word; 
The  mother  thought,  "Oh  little,  buried  face!" 

And  one,  through  veil  of  doubt  and  agony, 
Saw  Christ,  alone  in  the  dim  garden-place ! 

MARGARET  STEELE  ANDERSON* 

The  Independent. 


16 


ZTEona  Stscu 

ANGEL  or  sorceress !  breathe  me  where  lies 
Thy  charm !     Oh,  the  dark  wonder  of  thy  face, 

Where  beauty  and  malignity  embrace ! 
The  covert  joy  within  the  shadow'd  eyes, 
The  mirth  upon  the  lips  which  knew  no  sighs, 

The  brow  whereon  life's  conflicts  left  no  trace, 

The  look  inscrutable  past  time  and  space, 
Bespeak  a  soul  that  knew  not  sacrifice! 
Faithless  and  heartless,  Mona  Lisa,  such 

Thou  wert;  and  he  who  loved  thee  doth  confess 
Thy  guilty  soul  by  his  fine,  artist  touch, — 

His  genius  still  unerring, — yet  not  less 
He  loved  thee  madly,  though  thou  gav'st  not  much 

Who  gav'st  of  love  all  but  its  happiness. 

ABBE  CARTER  GOODLOE. 

The  New  England  Magazine. 


t£fye  Singer's  fiycuse* 

1READ  our  sweetest  singers'  words, 
I  hear  the  music  of  their  voices; 
The  century's  a  cage  of  birds, 

The  multiplying  flock  rejoices. 
"  Too  many  far,"  the  critics  scold; 
"Too  many,"  the  faint-hearted  falter: 
Remonstrance,  haughty-browed  and  cold, 
The  swelling  chorus  cannot  alter. 

What  vibrant  string  forgets  to  ring 

When  kindred  sounds  are  near  it  throbbing? 
Thou  canst  not  scorn,  Apollo,  king! 

The  lowliest  reed  thy  breath  sets  sobbing. 
The  molten  feeling  in  us  lies, — 

The  heart  to  word  and  rhyme  must  coin  it. 
Ah !  who  can  hear  the  anthem  rise 

Without  a  throat  that  aches  to  join  it? 

Oh!  some  may  sing  for  all  the  years, 
And  some  for  but  the  fleeting  minute; 

But  singing  keeps  at  bay  our  fears, 
And  each  and  all  have  comfort  in  it. 

18 


Oh!  some  may  sing  for  all  mankind, 
And  some  for  but  a  single  hearer; 

And  one  the  greater  praise  may  find, 
And  one — to  one  at  least — be  dearer. 


MARY  RUSSELL  BARTLETT. 


The  Century,  "In  Lighter  Vein." 
April,  1893. 


Zttutatton, 

[CAUGHT  a  snowflake  in  my  hand, 
Six-pointed  star, 
God-fashioned  still,  and  perfect  planned, 

Though  least  and  far. 

With  earthborn  impulse  swift  I  clasped  it  near, — 
The  crystal  in  my  hand  was  changed  a  tear. 

A  dream  upon  a  human  heart 

Was  waft  to-day, 
And  fell  soft-free,  was  clutched,  to  start 

In  pain  away. 

A  flitting  thought  in  heaven  gave  it  birth, 
It  came  to  be  a  human  tear — on  earth. 

MARY  HEFFERAN. 
19 


M 


Crust. 

Y  beautiful  life,  with  thy  dome  of  blue, 

Thy  wine  of  sunshine,  thy  calm  of  dew, 
Thy  bird  song  trilling  the  forest  through, 
Thy  blush  of  morning  and  evening  glow, 
Thy  joy  of  myriad  lives  that  grow, 
Of  myriad  blossoms  that  bud  and  blow, — 
My  beautiful  life,  I  love  thee  so! 
Sing  sweet  refrain  in  my  heart  again  : 
God  is  love!  God  is  love!      By  his  gifts  I  know 
God  is  love. 

My  desolate  life,  with  thy  sky  of  lead, 
Thy  wintry  sunshine,  thy  bird  song  fled, 
And  only  the  snow-heaped  graves  of  my  dead ! 
Yet  through  thy  darkness  a  glory  glows, 
And  life  is  springing  beneath  thy  snows, 
And  ever  nearer  the  morning  grows. 
Sing,  deep  refrain,  in  my  heart  again  : 
God  is  love !  God  is  love !     In  my  grief  I  know 
God  is  love. 

HELEN  BARRETT  MONTGOMERY. 


Cfye  IDorlb's  Sleep. 

HASTE,  cover  yourself  in  the  shrouded  skies, 
Faint  moon,  with  your  broken  ring; 
And  curious  stars,  bind  fast  your  eyes 

With  the  clouds  that  the  rain  winds  bring. 
Deep,  motionless  night,  with  your  mantle  dark 

Of  silence  and  shadow  deep, 

Bend  closer  while  watching,  the  long  hours  mark, 
And  let  the  old  world  sleep. 

Whispering  wind  of  the  wandering  feet, 

Steal  back  to  the  forest  shade; 
Break  not  the  quiet,  so  still,  so  sweet, 

That  over  the  world  is  laid : 
For  the  world  is  so  weary,  so  sad  with  woe, 

Wake  it  and  it  will  weep; 
Compassionate  wind,  breathe  soft  and  go, 

And  let  the  old  world  sleep. 

SARAH  CHAMBERLIN  WEED. 


S)6e  on  tfye  planting  of  tfye  ^trst  Class 

T    ONG  ago,  the  legends  tell  us, 
•*— '     In  a  land  across  the  seas, 

Lived  a  people  strong  and  warlike, 
And  their  gods  were  forest  trees. 

Each  man  loved  his  own,  and  watched  it 
With  a  proud  and  anxious  heart, 

Tending  it  as  if  it  truly 

Of  his  own  life  were  a  part. 

If  the  gentle  winds  of  heaven, 

Whisp'ring  low,  its  leaflets  stirred, 

Then  he  listened  most  devoutly 
To  the  mystic,  god-sent  word. 

If  the  terror  of  the  lightning 

Scorched  it  with  its  fiery  breath, 

Then  he  paid  it  higher  reverence, 
As  a  sign  of  his  own  death  : 

Said:    "My  stricken  Mediator 
Shows  me,  by  this  sudden  sign, 

That  my  life  and  strength,  so  closely 
Joined  to  his,  like  his  decline." 


So  of  old  they  lived  and  worshiped, 
Feeling  that  some  subtle  plan 

Linked  the  life  and  growth  in  Nature 
To  the  life  and  growth  in  man. 

Centuries  have  bloomed  and  faded, 
Nations,  now  forgotten,  sleep, 

And  the  aged  Past,  in  silence, 
Hold  their  secrets  buried  deep. 

Man  has  risen,  life  is  broader, 
Is  a  nobler,  grander  thing; 

Sweeter  now  its  lyric  measures, 
And  its  paeans  louder  ring. 

Yet  to  us  the  Past  has  given 

Myriad  thoughts  we  call  our  own, 

And  we  still  are  reaping  harvests 
From  the  seed  that  it  has  sown. 

And  we  know,  tho'  half  unconscious, 
Still  remains  the  old,  old  thought 

Of  our  sympathy  with  Nature 

Which  their  weird  religion  taught. 
23 


Still  we  feel  that  God  is  nearest 
In  the  ancient  forest  shade: 

To  the  spirit  of  the  Woodland, 
Man  has  ever  homage  paid. 

Then  blow,  friendly  winds  of  heaven, 
O'er  the  charge  we  leave  you  here ; 

And  ye  summer  rains,  fall  gently, — 
Sunny  skies,  bend  down  to  cheer! 

And  O  Ruler  of  the  storm-clouds, 
Master  of  the  winds  and  sky, 

We,  thy  children,  crave  thy  sunshine, 
Losing  which  we  droop  and  die. 

May  we  change,  like  this  our  emblem, 
Earthy  dross,  to  fairest  life, 

By  thy  aid  gain  strength  and  beauty 
From  the  elemental  strife. 


CLARA  A.  JONES. 


u 


©6e  to 

[From  Canto  V.] 

PON  thy  altar,  Wellesley,  glows 

A  living  spark  that  ever  burns, 

Fanned  by  each  longing  heart  that  yearns 
For  all  the  gifts  that  learning  shows. 


Then  mould  each  daughter  strong  and  fair, 
With  supple  sinew,  nerve,  and  power, 
With  beauty  as  her  rightful  dower, 

And  pure  as  God's  own  thought  of  her; 

Grant  her  the  comprehensive  mind 
That  moves  as  planets  in  their  arc, 
Whose  all-embracing  circles  mark 

The  farthest  ripple  of  the  mind ; 

Yet  leave  her  humble,  gracious,  kind, 
And  artless  as  the  wayside  flower. 

This  is  thy  grand  ideal  of  good : 
A  truer  heart,  a  clearer  eye, — 
A  proud,  deep-bosomed  race  and  high, 

With  less  of  passion  in  the  blood, 

And  more  and  more  of  motherhood ! 

ANNA  ROBERTSON  BROWN  LINDSAY. 


BY  the    promise   of  noon's    blue   splendor    in    the 
dawn's  first  silvery  gleam, 
By  the  song  of  the  sea  that  compelleth  the   path    of 

the  rock-cleaving  stream, 

I  summon  thee,  recreant  dreamer,  to  rise  and  follow 
thy  dream. 

At   the    inmost  core   of  thy  being  I    am   a   burning 

fire, 
From   thine    own    altar   flame    kindled,  in    the    hour 

when  souls  aspire; 
For  know   that   men's    prayers     shall   be     answered, 

and  guard  thy  spirit's  desire. 

That  which   thou    would'st  be    thou    must    be,    that 

which  thou  shalt  be  thou  art: 
As  the  oak,  astir  in  the  acorn,  the   dull  earth  rend- 

eth  apart, 
Lo,    thou,    the   seed    of   thy    longing,    that   breaketh 

and  waketh  the  heart! 
,26 


Mine  is  the  cry  of  the  night  wind,  startling  thy 
traitorous  sleep; 

Moaning  I  echo  thy  music,  and  e'en  while  thou 
boastest  to  reap 

Alien  harvests,  my  anger  resounds  from  the  vehe- 
ment deep. 

I  am  the  solitude  folding  thy  soul  in  a  sudden  em- 
brace ; 

Faint  waxes  the  voice  of  thy  fellow,  wan  the  light 
on  his  face; 

Life  is  as  cloud-drift  about  thee  alone  in  shelterless 
space. 

I  am  the  drawn  sword  barring  the  lanes  thy  muti- 
nous feet 

Vainly  covet  for  greenness.     Loitering  pace  or  fleet, 
Thine   is   the  crag-path   chosen;    on   the   crest   shall 
rest  be  sweet. 

I  am  thy  strong  consoler,  when  the  desolate   human 

pain 
Darkens  upon  thee,  the  azure  out-blotted  by  rush  of 

the  rain. 
All   that   thou   dost   cherish   may    perish ;  still    shall 

thy  quest  remain. 

27 


Call  me  thy  foe  in  thy  passion;    claim  me   in   peace 

for  thy  friend; 
Yet   bethink   thee   by    lowland   or  upland,    wherever 

thou  wiliest  to  wend, 
I    am    thine    Angel   of  Judgment;    mine    eyes    thou 

must  meet  in  the  end. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


H 


E  has  been  dead  so  many  years ! 

The  record  on  his  grave  is  dim, 
And  yet — the  men  one  sees  and  hears, 

How  dead  they  seem  compared  to  him. 

CHARLOTTE  ROSE  STANLEY. 


©eorge  Birtfytngton's 


was    a    famous    washing    day,    its    action 
near  the  Hub  : 

A  Nation's  raiment  in  the   suds,  a   hero   at   the   tub. 
Then  come,  ye  loyal  patriots,  and  listen  to  my  lay! 
I'll   sing    of    good   George   Birthington   on    this,  his 
washing  day. 

"The  time  is  come,"  said  Birthington,  "when  wash 

we  really  must, 
For,  see  our  country's   garments,  how   they're   tram- 

pled in  the  dust; 
And    Liberty's    bright    tunic    is    so    sadly    soiled,    I 

ween, 
That  nothing  but  a  washing  day  will  make  it  bright 

and  clean." 

The  morning  dawned,  the  washers   came,  the   wash- 

ing was  begun  ; 
The  steam  rose  high,  nor  ceased  to   rise   till  cleanli- 

ness was  won. 
And  now,  though  good  George  Birthington   is   gone 

to  his  repose, 
The     grateful     country     still    recalls     how    well     he 

washed  her  clothes. 

FLORENCE  E.  HOMER. 
29 


Say  of  tfye  £ost 


HOW  sweet  it  was  in  by-gone  times,  upon  a 
leisure  day, 

To  take  a  novel  from  the  shelf  and  while  the  hours 
away; 

And  with  our  kindly  author-guide  to  wander  hand 
in  hand 

Among  the  many  winding  paths  of  love's  own  fairy- 
land. 

How  sweet  to  toss  the  world  aside,  and  in  that  freer 
air, 

Forget  that  there  existed  aught  but  beauty  any- 
where ; 

To  feel  the  cool,  delicious  wind  blow  on  us  fresh 
and  strong, 

And  watch  the  troop  of  men  and  maids  trip  merrily 
along ! 

What   matters    if  a    cloud    appeared    in    that    serene 

blue  sky? 
It    lasted    but    a  moment's    space,   and    then   passed 

lightly  by. 

30 


What  matter  if  some    thorns    there    were    in    paths 
true  love  must  tread? 

We  knew  that  there  were  thornless  flowers  of  happi- 
ness ahead. 

Yea,    though    Sir  Villain  plot   his   worst,   and    steep 
himself  in  crime, 

His  efforts,  it  was  safe   to  say,  were   but  a  waste    of 
time; 

For  always  in    love's  fairy-land  of  one  thing  we  are 
sure, 

Whatever  woes   the   faithful  pair  of   lovers  may   en- 
dure, 

Kind  fate  will  let  the  hero  win 
The  beautiful  young  heroine. 

ii. 

Now,  sad    to    say,    this  all   is  changed.     Our    novel- 
reading  hours 

We    can    no    longer   spend    among  those    paths    be- 
strewn with  flowers ; 

But,    dragged    into  a  wilderness,  we  soon    have    lost 
our  way, 

Entangled    in    that    thicket    dense,    the    Problem    of 
the  Day. 

31 


Our  hero,  gay  and  brave   before,   has   vanished  with 

a  sigh, 
Which  is  not  strange  when  we  perceive   the  heroine 

near   by ; 
For  how  can  this  poor  youth   exist    (e'en  though  he 

should  prefer) 
With  qualities,  both   good   and  bad,  monopolized  by 

Her? 

One  grand,  gigantic  form    alone  comes  slowly  mov- 
ing on; 

All  others  shrink  to  nothingness  beside  this  Amazon. 

What   does    she   want  with    heroes,    pray,  when    her 
determined  plan 

Consists  in  showing  to  the   world  the  wickedness  of 
man  ? 

Yet  e'en  our   friend    the  villain   bold,  must   think   it 
hardly  fair 

That    he    is    forced    to    sin    his    sins    with     such    an 
humble  air. 

Ah!  hopeless  is  the  task  indeed,  and  pitiable  the  fate 

Of  him  who  dares  attempt  to  write  a  novel  up  to  date, — 
For  with  the  modern  heroine 
You  cannot  get  a  hero  in. 

CORNELIA   E.  GREEN. 

Chap-Book, 

April  15,  1806. 

32 


Compensation* 

SO  long  she  has  worn  this  mask  of  calm  content, 
Through  hours  and  days  of  never-ceasing  care, 
Learning  with  steady  hope  to  lift  and  bear 
The  bitter,  weary  burden  of  life's  stent, 
She  gives  no  sign  of  sorrow,  nor  the  pent, 
Choked  anguish  of  an  aching  heart, — with  rare 
Sweet  art  concealing  pain  and  all  the  wear 
And  fret  of  disappointment,  as  one  sent 
To  show  forth  lasting  patience.     And  the  smile 
That  glorifies  with  constant  light  her  face, 

Though  borrowed  first  to  hide  the  scars  of  grief, 
Is  now  indeed  her  own;  —  for  while 

She  gladdened  others  in  the  darksome  place, 
Her  sad  soul  found,  in  smiling,  self-relief. 

MABEL  A.  CARPENTER. 

The  New  England  Magazine, 
October,  1896. 


33 


Ztty  ©tmu 

BROWN  heads  and  gold  around  my  knee 
Dispute  in  eager  play; 
Sweet,  childish  voices  in  my  ear 

Are  sounding  all  the  day; 
Yet  sometimes  in  a  sudden  hush 

I  seem  to  hear  a  tone 
Such  as  my  little  boy's  had  been, 
If  I  had  kept  my  own. 

And  ofttimes  when  they  come  to  me 

As  evening  hours  grow  long, 
And  beg  me,  winningly,  to  give 

A  story  or  a  song, 
I  see  a  pair  of  star-bright  eyes 

Among  the  others  shine, — 
The  eyes  of  him  who  ne'er  hath  heard 

Story  or  song  of  mine. 

At  night,  I  go  my  round  and  pause 
Each  white-draped  cot  beside, 

And  note  how  flushed  is  this  one's  cheek, 
How  that  one's  curls  lie  wide; 
34 


And  to  a  corner  tenantless 

My  swift  thoughts  go  apace ; — 
That  would  have  been,  if  he  had  lived, 

My  other  darling's  place. 

The  years  go  fast;  my  children  soon 

Within  the  world  of  men 
Will  find  their  work,  and  venture  forth 

Not  to  return  again ; 
But  there  is  one  who  cannot  go, — 

I  shall  not  be  alone, — 
The  little  one  who  did  not  live 

Will  always  be  my  own. 

MARY  WRIGHT  PLUMMER. 


The  Century  Magazine, 
March,  1882. 


35 


[T  was  that  they  loved  the  children, 
The  children  used  to  say, 

For  there  was  no  doubt 

That  when  school  was  out, 
At  the  same  time  every  day, 

Down  by  the  wall, 

Where  the  grass  grew  tall, 
Under  the  hedge  of  the  hollyhocks, 

One  by  one, 

At  the  touch  of  the  sun, 
There  opened  the  four-o'clocks. 

It  was  that  they  loved  the  children ; — 
But  the  children  have  gone  away, 
And  somebody  goes 
When  nobody  knows, 
At  the  same  time  every  day, 
To  see  by  the  wall, 
WThere  the  grass  grows  tall, 
Under  the  hedge  of  the  hollyhocks, 
How,  one  by  one, 
At  the  touch  of  the  sun, 
Still  open  the  four-o'clocks. 

LILLIAN  B.  QUIMBY. 
36 


3n  Zltemortam :   ^elen  Q.  Sfyafer. 

OUR  world  had  need  of  her,  but  God  unrolled 
His  larger  plan,  and  without  word  or  stir, 

Answering  glad  the  Voice  that  cannot  err, 
She  passed  into  the  silence  and  His  fold. 
Soft,  mellow  sunshine  filled  the  earth  with  gold 

The  day  she  left  it.     We  that  dare  aver 

We  live  in  deeds,  not  hours,  know  life,  in  her, 
Was  nobly  lived  ere  Psalmist's  years  were  told. 
Father,  thy  will  be  done!     All  things  are  good 

Thou  sendest  us,  altho'  we  think  them  ill ; 
And  what  seems  ill,  Thy  plan  misunderstood. 
We  know  she  walks  in  brighter,  happier  ways 
To-day  than  yesterday,  so  give  Thee  praise, 

And  smile   thro'  tears  that  mourn  our  leader  still. 

MARTHA  GAUSE  MCCAULLEY. 


37 


Ctll  $ail  to  tlje  (EoIIege   Beautiful  1 

ALL  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful! 
All  hail  to  the  Welleslej  blue! 
All  hail  to  the  girls  who  are  gath'ring  pearls 

From  the  shells  that  are  open  to  few : 
From  the  shells  upcast  by  the  ebbing  Past 

On  the  shores  where,  faithful  and  true, 
An  earnest  band  with  the  groping   hand 
Are  seeking  the  jewels  from  under  the  sand; 
And    spreading    abroad    through   the   length    of   the 

land, 
The  name  of  the  Wellesley  blue. 

CHORUS. 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful! 

All  hail  to  the  royal  throne, 
Whence  her  heart  within  her  burning, 
Silver-voiced,  far-eyed  Learning 

Looks  upon  her  own. 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful! 

All  hail  to  the  brave  and  bright! 
She  has  taken  her  place  in  the  swift-sandaled  race, 

Where  the  strong  man  smiles  in  his  might. 
38 


Oh!  shining  arise  the  lights  in  her  eyes, 
And  her  hands  are  hot  for  the  prize. 
Now  fast  and  far  let  the  race  be  tried ! 
She  runs  in  her  weakness  and  he  in  his  pride; 
But  run  as  they  will,  they  will  run  side  by  side, 
And  share  in  the  victor's  right. 

All  hail  to  the  College  Beautiful! 

All  hail  to  the  sacred  walls, 
Where,  sinking  away  in  the  shadowy  gray, 

Aye,  the  sun's  last  radiance  falls; 
Where  first  on  the  lake  the  day  beams  awake, 
And  the  Spring's  white  manacles  break. 
But  flushed  in  waking  or  pale  in  rest, 
With    leaves    on    her    hair    or    with    snows    on  her 

breast, 
Forever  the  fairest,  and  noblest,  and  best, 

All  hail  to  her  sacred  walls. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


39 


tEfye  Ctngelus* 

THE  glowing  evening  light  is  in  the  west; 
The  day  is  almost  done.    Across  the  land 
Conies  faint  and  sweet  the  Angelus'  command, 
"Give  God  due  praise  and  get  thee  to  thy  rest." 

Two  figures  standing  with  heads  bowed  in  prayer, 
A  man  and  woman,  each  in  peasant  dress ; 
She  with  clasped  hands  which  'gainst  her   bosom 
press, 

He  with  his  head  bared  to  the  evening  air. 

So  still  they  stand !  God's  presence  sure  is  near, 
God's  comfort  calmeth  now  the  toil-worn  heart, 
Which  stealeth  from  earth's  weariness  apart, 

And  seeketh  Him,  well  knowing  He  will  hear. 

Two  peasants  and  the  sunset's  golden  light, 

A  church  tower,  from  which  faint  and  sweet  out- 
rings 
The  Angelus:   "  Put  by  all  earthly  things; 

Turn  to  thy  rest.     The  dear  God  sendeth  night." 

JOSEPHINE  P.  SIMRALL. 

40 


A 


^cart's 

S  swift  in  the  dying  west 

The  bird  flies  home  to  her  nest, 
My  heart  thus  turneth  to  thee, 
To  thee,  sweet  love,  to  thee. 

The  bird,  in  her  downy  nest, 
My  heart  in  thee,  finds  rest. 
Though  branches  rock  and  sway 
The  bird  sits  safe  alway. 

KATHARINE  MORDANTT  QUINT. 


o1 


the  cradling  boughs 
Cuddled  limbs  arouse; 
Bonny  babes  get  up  from  curtained  beds  below : 
Pinafores  of  green, 
Caps  of  gayest  sheen, 
They'll  wear  for  summer  frolics  to  and  fro. 

ADA  MAY  KRECKER. 


M 


Caltcu 

Y  Lalia  breathes  love  on  the  roses, 
But  I, — though  a  rose  is  a  queen, — 

I  have  whispered  to  her  that  the  rarest  of  buds 
By  her  rose-lips  would  wither  unseen. 

In  the  depths  of  the  violet  meadows 

Kneels  Lalia,  a  votaress  fair, 
And   the   truth   in  her  heart   holds   the  blue   in 
her  eyes 

Fadeless,  resistless,  and  rare. 

My  Lalia  prays  over  the  lilies, 

But  I,— though  the  lilies'  true  knight, — 

I  have  said  to  my  love  that  I  find  her  pure  soul 
Than  the  exquisite  lilies  more  white. 

FLORENCE  ANNETTE  WING. 


Ci  Song  of  Praise* 

(In  Memory  of  Phillips  Brooks.) 
I. 

O  PERFECT  God,  who  sendest  of  Thy  grace 
Each  perfect  gift  to  us  Thy  children  here, 
Sunshine  and  showers,  the  summer's  radiant  face 
And  spring's  divinest  message,  starry  sphere, 
And  dewy  rose,  and  music,  and  the  near 
Sweet  human  joys  of  kindred  and  of  home, 
Love,  hope,  endeavor,  faith,  and  noble  cheer 
Of  prophet  souls  that  down  thy  pathways  come, 
Proving  our  earth   thy  feast,   our  skies  thy  temple- 
dome, — 

ii. 

We  praise  thee;   we  acknowledge   thee,  O  Lord, 
Our  angel's  Angel  and  our  Gift  Supreme. 
And  now,  if  ever  earnestness  implored 
Thy  guidance,  deign  to  lend  it,  for  the  theme 
That   lifts  our  hearts  is  in  Thy  heart,  we  deem, 
Held  precious.      Wherefore  touch  with  cleansing 

fire, 
Pure   from  Thine   altar's   height,  these  lips,  that 

seem 

Presumptuous,  yet  cannot  choose;  inspire 
This  tongue  with  truth,  sustain  this  consecrate  desire ! 

43 


III. 

We  praise  Thee,  then,  that  in  these   latter  days, 
When  our  dark  earth  is  slowly  turning  still 
Into  Thy  steadfast  light,  but  mortal  ways 
Are  tangled  yet  with  myriad  skeins  of  ill, 
Thy  love  has  sent  a  man,  who  should  fulfill 
Again  the  ancient  oracles,  and  stand 
A  tower  of  adamant  on  a  storm-swept  hill, 
A  great  rock's  shadow  in  a  weary  land, 
Health    to    the    sick,   deliverance    to   the    blind   and 
banned. 

IV. 

Let  no  man  fear  our  Lord  is  honored  less, 

When  his   foreshadowing  paints  his   servant  too. 

Nay,  rather  hold  in  awe  the  clear  impress 

Of  Christ's  own  pattern  on  a  spirit  new, 

A  spirit  to  its  Master  sternly  true. 

The    Christ    in    him    so    lived    and    strove    and 

wrought, 

So  wondrously  through  all  his  being  grew, 
That  in  his   eyes  we  read  Christ's  very  thought, 
And   in   his   smile  a  hint  of  Christ's  own   smile  we 

caught. 


Among  his  kind  he  dwelt  in  simple  wise, 
Choosing  and  claiming  as  his  dearest  right 
The   common  lot,  the  universal  ties, 
The  plain  experiences  that  flashed  with  light, 
Transfigured,  in  his  essence-piercing  sight; 
Keeping  his  golden  dower  of  privilege, 
Birth,  riches,  learning,  genius,  duly  bright 
With  shining  use,  jet  plucking  still  the  pledge 
Of  loftiest  joy  along  the  highway's  dusty  edge. 

VI. 

Yea,  common  paths  he  loved  and  common  men; 
All  human  souls  his  brothers;  not  in  creed 
Alone,  but  passionately  proven,  when 
Each  eager  word  was  sealed  with  eager  deed. 
The   great  heart's  torrent,  struggling  to  be  freed 
And  rush  in  shoreless  blessing  everywhere — 
The    deep    heart's    tenderness,    that    fain    would 

bleed 

His  life  out,  drop  by  drop,  if  he  might  share 
And   heal  our  woes — who   can   forget,  and  who   de- 
clare ! 

45 


So  close  his  walk  with  God,  so  thin  the  veil 

That  from  encompassing  eternity 

Still  held  his  vision,  that  his  every  tale 

Of  lands  celestial  was  a  thing  to  see, 

Stamped  with  the  proof-mark  of  reality. 

So  free  he  dwelt  in  God's  high  fatherhood, 

Our  faith  through   his   grew  son-like,   glad,  and 

free ; 

Conscious  of  God  in  all  the  world  of  good, 
Trusting  to  God  to  spare  or  slay  us,  as  He  would. 


A  kingly  presence,  robed  in  white  array, 
As  angels  use;    a  rapt,  uplifted  face, 
And  holy  eyes  that  greet  the  heavenly  day 
Afar  beyond  our  walls  of  time  and  space ; 
Grand,  searching  eyes  that  earthward  turn  apace, 
And  brooding  o'er  the  multitudinous  throng 
That  surges  to  the  very  altar-place, 
Drink  deep  its  inspiration;  lips  that  long 
Have    charged    themselves   with    noblest    meanings, 
victor-strong. 

46 


A  rapid,  reverent,  self-unconscious  voice,  * 
Making  his  people's  every  prayer  his  own ; 
How  often  shall  their  dreaming  ears  rejoice 
To  trace  the  old  beloved  undertone 
Through    the    great  ritual    they  with    him    have 

known ! 

How  often  shall  their  souls  exult  again, 
Hearing  that  voice,  to  glorious  music  grown, 
Pealing  out  ecstasy  to  heart  and  brain, 
Pouring  out  faith  sublime  and  hope's  immortal  rain! 


Earth  wails  her  "  Nevermore ! "  against  the  sound ; 
Earth   strives  to  shut  the  vision  from  our  sight 
And  leave  one  master-memory :  life  is  crowned 
With   death ;    with    funeral    pomp    his    couch    is 

dight; 

Majestic  peace  sleeps  on  his  eyelids  white ; 
His  country's  banners  watch  her  patriot's  bed ; 
His  country's  guards  wait  in  the  solemn  light; 
While  slow,  exalted,  with  bewildered  tread, 
Passes  the  host  unknown,  and  now  unshepherded. 
47 


XI. 

Unshepherded?    And  here  our  Galahad  lies 
Stricken,  beneath  the  lilies  of  his  dreams? 
Ah,  no !   in  golden  fields  of  Paradise 
He  laughs  with  God  beside  the  living  streams. 
Almost  we  catch  the  swift,  supernal  gleams 
His  garments  leave  in  passing;  almost  know, 
By    sense    more    sure    than    that    which    surest 

seems, 

The  benedictions  from  his  throne  that  flow, 
The  throne  God  shares  with  him  who  overcame  below. 

XII. 

He  loved  his  people;    in  his  Christ-like  love 
He  gave  himself  to  us :   that  gift  no  power 
In  earth  or  heaven  or  unguessed  heights  above 
Can  take  away :    himself;    not  the  frail  dower 
Of  mortal  grace,  the  splendor  of  an  hour; 
But  that  great  character,  that  vital  truth, 
Which  entered  into  us,  and  flushed  to  flower 
Each    skyward    bud,    each    struggling    aim     un- 
couth ; 
Claiming  for  God  the  King  our  holy  land  of  youth. 


O  ye  his  kindred,  ye  his  chosen  peers, 
Robed  in  the  purple  of  his  heart's  conferring, 
We  bow  before  your  grief:   the  buried  years 
Still  in  your  faith's  divinest  triumph  stirring 
Exquisite  memories,  poignantly  recurring ! 
But  we,  the  people,  who  in  spirit  met, 
In  spirit  only,  loved  him, — nought  deterring, 
Grow  in  his  angel-growth  but  richer  yet, — 
Our  souls  his  monument,  when  centuries  forget! 

MARION  PELTON  GUILD. 


Sunset* 

HP  HE  golden  glory  quivers  on  the  lake, 
I       A  robin's  vesper  note  sounds  clear  and  true; 
Beyond  the  far  hill  line  one  long  pale  cloud 
Lies,  like  a  thought  of  God,  across  the  blue. 

MARY  HOLLANDS  MCLEAN. 

"AtWellesley." 


49 


Sleeplessness. 

WITHIN>~ 

There  are  four  low  walls,  and  one  overhead, — 
White,  white  walls, — and  a  small  white  bed, 
Where  I  lie  with  mine  eyes  wide-opened, 
For  Sleep  is  sitting  without. 

Within,— 

There's  a  wide-waked  soul  that  sighs  and  sings 

Restless  thoughts  of  restful  things ; 

There  are  dreams   that  beat  on  the  walls  with  their 

wings, 
For  Sleep  is  sitting  without. 

Within,— 

There's  a  wistful,  wide-eyed  wakefulness, 
Never  to  be  stilled  unless 
Sleep  cometh  in  at  the  door  to  bless, — 
And  Sleep  is  sitting  without. 

FLORENCE  CONVERSE. 


ZHy  College  XOOTTL 

(A  Farewell.) 

A  LOVING  look  I  give  around  the  room  : 
Here  Beatrice  Cenci's  earnest  gaze 
For  simple  justice  pleads  with  me ;  a  haze 
Enshadows  mournful  Sappho  in  its  gloom. 

And  near  a  sunny  Rome  is  Effie  Deans, 

Some  photographs  are  o'er  my  laden  shelves; 
And  wondrous  wealth  is  here  for  one  who  delves. 

Above  my  desk  a  singing  cherub  leans. 

Ah !  hov'ring  o'er  the  pictures  in  the  shade 
I  see  the  wraith  of  days  when  pain  was  here, 
And  troublous  times  that  only  prayer  could  cheer, 

And  doubts  and  fears  and  struggles  that  I  had. 

But  in  the  golden  shimmer  that  the  lake 

Reflects  upon  the  wall  I  see  my  joys. 

One  moment  are  the  sad  and  glad  in  poise; 
But  glad  outweighs, — the  lights  and  shadows  break ! 

MABEL  WING  CASTLE. 
51 


(Culture, 

THEY  stood  and  talked  together  at  the  hour 
Of  night  when  constellations  brightest  shine ; 
The    cloud-drifts,   rent  and    torn,   wind-blown,    were 

clasped 
With  borrowed  silver,  curved  in  molten  line. 

In  thoughtful  tone,  from  heart  sincere  and  tried, — 
One   heard   'twas   friend   to    friend, — the    first    one 
spoke. 

The  solemn  glory  of  the  full-orbed  moon 

Serene  from  out  the  parting  cloud-bank  broke. 

u  How  great  a  power  has  written  yonder  law, 
That  moves  resistless  on  in  every  star! 

Sublime  the  joy  to  man,  who  dares  to  know 
The  system  far  beyond  his  make  or  mar. 

"The  course  of  every  planet,  of  each  moon, 
As  surely  shaped  yon  shaft  of  radiant  cloud 

As  the  light  wind-puff  driving  it  so  swift 
Across  the  rounded  disc  of  Cynthia  proud. 

52 


'kOh!  what  were  life  if  thou,  sublimest   scroll, 

Were   a    black-letter    page    to    my   dull,    darkened 

soul ? " 

His  friend  but  waited  till  the  flash  and  fire  died 
From  out  the  air,  and  quietly  replied  : — 

44  With  you  I  feel  that  not  to  know  is  death; 

From  there  our  sympathies  seem  to  divide. 
While  you  exult  in  knowledge,  science  broad, 

I  lose  the  science  in  the  stillness  wide. 

"  Forget,  you  know!  we  cannot  see  the  all, 
Save  as  we  fail  to  think  of  knowledge,  law. 

Rest  conscious  in  resource  of  latent  power, 
And  give  yourself  thus  to  a  higher  awe. 

"Sublime  the  sense  of  ordered,  noted  life; 

But  lost  within  the  rapturous,  swelling  whole. 
Divine  the  sense  of  law  and  spirit  fused, 

Not  mind,  not  heart,  but  all-embracing  soul!" 

ANNA  ESTELLE  WOLFSON. 


S3 


T 


Dolores* 

HROUGH  the  streets  of  fair  Sevilla 

Roams  the  happy  Gypsy  maid; 
Blithe  she  singeth,  lithe  she  danceth, 

'Neath  the  orange's  welcome  shade. 
Care  she  feels  not,  sorrow  knows  not, 

Free  as  air,  as  ocean's  foam, 
'Neath  the  blue  arch  of  the  heavens 

Is  the  dark-eyed  maiden's  home. 
O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

Singing  to  thy  light  guitar, 
O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

O  Dolores,  Zingara! 

Oleanders  pink  with  clusters, 

Sage  green  of  the  olive  tree, 
Waving  branches,  flitting  sunlight, 

Make  a  picture  fit  for  thee. 
Slender  ankles,  brown  and  shapely, 

Wondrous  tresses,  dark  as  night, 
Graceful  form  in  every  movement, 

Scarlet  bodice,  skirt  of  white. 
54 


O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

Dancing  to  the  light  guitar, 
O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

O  Dolores,  Zingara! 

Now  she  comes  with  soft  voice  pleading. 

List!     "For  Pamor  de  Dios;" 
Ah,  Senora,  how  bewitching, 

And  a  glittering  coin  we  toss. 
Then  again  for  us  she  danceth, 

Throwing  high  her  lovely  arms, 
Fluttering  like  a  bird  its  plumage, 

Giving  glimpses  of  her  charms. 
O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

Dancing  to  the  light  guitar, 
O  Dolores,  Gypsy  maiden, 

O  Dolores,  Zingara ! 

Ah,  Sevilla,  we  must  leave  thee, 
"  Adios,"  to  sunny  Spain ; 
Daughter  of  the  dark  Gttanos, 
We  may  see  thee  ne'er  again. 
55 


Pepper  trees  with  scarlet  berries, 

Cactus  hedges,  olives  green, 
Just  between  thy  twinkling  shadows 

Is  the  little  Gypsy  seen. 
Ah,  Dolores,  thou  art  weeping, 

Weeping  by  thy  light  guitar; 
"Adios,"  O  Gypsy  maiden, 

O  Dolores,  Zingara! 

JOSEPHA  VIRGINIA  SWEETSER. 

Cfye  Canterbury  Cales* 

I   LOVE  to  read  the  tales  in  merry  rhyme 
Of  bold  adventure  or  of  jollity, 

Wherewith  those  olden  pilgrims  passed  their  time; 
And  often  have  I  wished  that  I  might  see 
Upon  their  way  that  very  company — 
The  dainty  nun,  the  knight  with  burnished  lance, 
Most  dear — the  poet's  gentle  countenance. 

ADA  MAY  KRECKER. 


H 


3tt  Ctrcabte. 

OW  swift  the  days  fled,  one  by  one, 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie! 
And  when  we  thought  them  just  begun, 
(Those  happy  days !)  the  last  was  gone, 
And  we  no  more  might  linger  on 

In  Arcadie. 


Fair  days,  descending  from  the  blue 

On  Arcadie,  on  Arcadie ! 

Some  queens,  and  crowned  with  diamond  dew, 
By  gleaming  robes  of  sunlight  gold 
Enwrapt,  in  many  a  wind-swayed  fold, 

In  Arcadie. 


And  some  were  Quakers  clad  in  gray 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie; 
And  passed  serenely  on  their  way, 
Silent,  as  pondering  some  sweet  thought, 
From  Goethe  or  from  Homer  brought, 

In  Arcadie. 

57 


Some  days  were  angels,  white  and  tall, 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie, 
Who  led  us  to  confessional, 
There  bade  us  of  our  sins  repent, 
And  softly  blessed  us  ere  we  went, 

In  Arcadie. 

And  oreads  some,  lithe-limbed  and  strong, 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie — 
With  laughing  eyes,  forever  young; 
Our  guides  were  they  to  mount  and  glen, 
Green-robed,  like  Robin's  merry  men, 

In  Arcadie. 

And  lo !  we  stood  on  many  a  height 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie; 
The  stream  that  lay  in  curves  of  light 
Before  our  feet,  through  yon  blue  rift 
Rolled  seaward,  silently  and  swift, 

Through  Arcadie. 

That  mountain-barrier,  faint  and  far 
Round  Arcadie,  round  Arcadie, 

58 


It  shuts  us  in  with  moon  and  star, 
With  sunset  splendors,  dawn  delights, 
And  all  the  train  of  silver  nights, 
In  Arcadie! 


And  some  there  met  who  ne'er  will  part, 

In  Arcadie,  in  Arcadie ; 
For  lands  divide  not  heart  from  heart, 
And  friends  are  friends  on  sea  or  shore, 
Although  they  wander  nevermore 

In  Arcadie ! 

JOSEPHINE  A.  CASS. 

Boston  Transcript. 


59 


[N  the  heart  of  the  hills  a  lingering  stream 
Goes  songfully  on  to  meet  the  sea; 
In  the  heart  of  the  hills,  enthralled  in  a  dream, 
My  life  waits  wistfully. 

I  kneel  me  down  where  the  waters  pass, 
'Mid  purpling  flags  and  lilies  of  white ; 
I  bury  my  face  in  the  long  sedge-grass 

That  the  wares  kiss  in  their  flight. 

I  whisper  down  through  the  water's  sheen, 
"Oh,  stream,  thou  art  brave  to  seek  the  sea; 
'Mid  the  sin  and  the  shame  that  wait  between, 
Thou  wilt  lose  thy  purity. 

1 1  dreamed  a  dream  of  the  hidden  years, 

And  my  heart  is  songless,  my  lips  are  dumb, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  the  whole  world's  tears, 
For  the  sin  and  the  shame  to  come." 

The  stream  made  answer  in  glimmer  and  glow : 
"In  spite  of  purity,  lost  or  won, 
The  stately  ships  pass  to  and  fro, 

And  the  world's  work  must  be  done. 
60 


"  Beyond  the  pain,  and  beyond  the  mist 

There  waits  forever  the  vast  of  the  sea, 
And  the  voice  of  the  hoar  Evangelist 
Thunders,  'Eternity.'" 

There  with  my  face  in  the  cool  sedge-grass, 

I  heard  the  murmur  of  waters  that  flee, 
I  caught  the  flutter  of  wings  that  pass, 
And  my  soul  longed  to  be  free. 

My  heart  grew  eager  to  bear  and   know 

The  toil,  the  pain,  the  shame  and  the  strife, 
That  rise  and  gain  in  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  the  restless  waters  of  life. 

Then,  where  the  hills  encircled  me, 

Outpouring  from  water,  and  air,  and  sod, 
I  caught  the  sweep  of  the  measureless  sea 
Of  the  infinite  spirit  of  God. 

In  the  heart  of  the  hills,  a  lingering  stream 

Goes  silently  on  to  meet  the  sea; 
In  the  heart  of  the  hills,  enthralled  in  a  dream, 
My  life  waits  wistfully. 

ADA  S.  WOOLFOLK. 
61 


(Empty  Hest 

A  NEST  in  the  tree  top  swinging; 
An  oriole  gayly  singing: 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

To  and  fro,  to  and  fro. 

Sing,  quivering  breast! 

Swing,  birdlings  at  rest 
In  your  cradle  the  green  leaves  under! 

Warm  little  nest, 

Sheltered  and  blest, 
Will  it  always  be  so,  I  wonder? 

The  wind  in  the  tree  tops  sighing, 

In  the  leafless  branches  dying! 

Sad  and  slow,  to  and  fro, 

Swings  a  nest  filled  with  snow. 

Ah  me!  nevermore 

Shall  a  bright  wing  soar 
From  that  nest  'neath  the  leaves  suspended. 

Empty  and  bare 

It  hangeth  there, 
The  wraith  of  a  summer  ended. 

HELEN  BARRETT  MONTGOMERY. 

62 


w 


Song. 

HEN  other  hearts  are  light  and  gay, 
And  life  holds  carnival  in  May, — , 

Some  gladness  borrow. 
O,  not  upon  that  joy  intrude 
Thy  grief,  but  seek  in  solitude 
A  balm  for  sorrow. 

When  other  heads  are  bowed,  and  grief 
Doth  settle  with  the  falling  leaf,— 

Make  no  complaining. 
O,  do  not  bring  thy  burden  there 
To  add  to  woe,  but  hide  thy  care, 

All  sign  disdaining. 

CHARLOTTE  ROSE  STANLEY. 


ZTty  College 

(A  Father's  Soliloquy.) 

SHE  is  skilled  in  Mathematics, 
And  knows  more  of  Hydrostatics 
Than  I  learned  in  all  my  plodding  years  at  Yale. 
She  performs  experiments 
With  the  divers  elements, 
That  would  make  her  little  brother's  cheek  turn  pale. 

She  can  French  and  German  speak, 

And  can  write  in  Ancient  Greek, 
Getting  all  the  various  accents  quite  correct. 

Though  she  deals  hard  blows  at  Russians 

In  historical  discussions, 
In  her  logic  not  a  flaw  can  I  detect. 

She,  altho'  'tis  not  her  habit, 

Can  dissect  a  good  sized  rabbit, 
Giving  you  the  name  of  each  and  every  bone. 

Much  she  knows  of  plant  and  tree, 

On  the  land  or  in  the  sea, 

Slighting  not  meanwhile  the  all-important  stone. 
64 


Like  a  statue  can  she  pose, 

And  interpret  learned  prose 
In  a  way  that  makes  my  pulses  wildly  beat. 

She  has  studied  poetry, — lyric, 

Epic  also,  and  satiric, — 
Till  her  diction  and  her  style  are  quite  complete. 

She  has  studied  me, — the  sinner! — 

And  can  cook  as  good  a  dinner 
As  a  hungry  man  would  ever  wish  to  spy. 

And  I  challenge  the  world  over, 

If  two  folk  they  can  discover 
Quite  so  happy  as  my  college  girl  and  I. 

ALICE  WELCH  KELLOGG. 


SLENDER,  brown-haired  Josephine, 
With  the  eyes  of  blue ! 
I'm  no  gifted  cavalier, 
I've  not  fame,  nor  wealth,  'tis  clear; 
But  I  love  you  oceans,  dear! 
Won't  that  do? 


(Written  for  the  Opening-  of  the  Woman's  Building1,  World's 
Fair,  1893.) 

FROM  the  lovely  land  of  Alhambra  and  out  from 
the  mists  of  the  years, 
Let  us  summon  a  presence  before  us,  as  spirits  are 

summoned  by  Seers. 
Behold,  a  woman  is  standing,  the  glitter  of  gems  in 

her  hands, 
With  far-gazing  eyes  that  are  turned  toward  the  rim 

of  invisible  lands. 
Behold    her,   royally    bending   to    heed    a   stranger's 

appeal, 
With   gift  of   grace  and   of   godspeed,   Isabella,    the 

Queen  of  Castile. 
Let  us  join   to  man's  glory  the  woman's,  the  glory 

of  faith  and  of  deed 
That  cheered  the  brave  mariner  on  in  the  day  of  his 

desperate  need. 

He,  sailing,  and  sailing,  and  into  the  sunset  seas, 
Little  dreamed  of  the  land  that  he  sailed  to,  the  sage 

and  the  sad  Genoese. 
66 


She,  dreaming,  and  dreaming,  and  dreaming  apart  in 

her  palace  of  Spain, 
Little  dreamed   of  the   future  awaiting    that   land   of 

the  Western  Main; 
The  future,   a   plant  of   God's   garden,   unfolding  in 

beauty  supreme 
To  blossom  into  the  splendor  of  this  White  City  of 

Dream ! 
Not  as  Queen  but  as  woman,  we  hail  Isabella,  and 

crown  her  to-day 
In  these  halls  that  women  have  built  and  illumined 

with  costly  array. 
Here,  gravely  let  us  be  grateful,  as  heirs  of  a  generous 

past, 
For  the  pleasure,   and   powers,   and   duties  fallen   to 

woman  at  last. 
They  have   yielded   to  her  their  kingdoms,   science, 

and  letters,  and  art, 
And  still  she  controls,  undisputed,  the  realm  of  the 

home  and  the  heart. 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON. 

The  Graphic, 
May  13,  1893. 


Barriers* 

HERE'S  a  leaf  here, 
There's  a  sky  there, 

With  space  between ; 
Here's  a  bird  here, 
There's  a  nest  there, 

With  time  between; 
Here's  a  rose  here, 
There's  a  bud  there, 

With  life  between ; 
Here's  a  grave  here, 
There's  a  child  there, 

With  death  between; 
Here's  a  smile  here, 
There's  a  smile  there, 

With  love  between; 
Here's  a  heart  here, 
There's  a  God  there, 

And  naught  between. 

HELEN  WORTHINGTON  ROGERS. 

Journal  of  Education, 
Jan.  28,  1892. 


£OPC  Song* 

DREAMS  by  day  and  thoughts  by  night 
Breathe  of  thee, 

Clouds  in  sky  and  waves  in  sea, 
Springing  grass  and  swallow's  flight. 

With  thy  voice  was  music  born 

On  the  earth, 

Pipes  Pandean,  cymbals'  mirth, 
Trumpet-clang,  and  bugle-horn ! 

Beautiful  the  world  and  strong 

From  thy  face, 

Flushed  with  youth  and  free  with  grace, 
That  to  gods  of  old  belong. 

Life  is  measured  by  the  beat 

Of  thy  heart; 

Time  began  and  shall  depart 
With  the  passing  of  thy  feet. 

LILLIAN  CORBETT  BARNES. 


69 


L 


IKE  the  dream  of  a  drowsy  flower, 

Fragrant  and  fleet; 
Like  the  hope  in  the  heart  of  a  pansy, 

Dusky  and  sweet; 
Like  the  passion  of  crimson  roses 

Flung  at  one's  feet: 
Deep  as  the  thoughts,  beloved, 

I  cannot  say; 
Dear  as  the  faith  in  each  other 

We  lost,  one  day ; 
Strong  as  when  souls  forsaken 

Know  no  dismay : 
Dear  love,  though  I  cannot  tell  you, 

All  love  can  be, 
Sometime — God  willing — you  shall,  love, 

Try  it  and  see. 

Like  the  struggle  of  souls  that  are  sleepless, 

Yearning  for  sleep ; 
Like  the  torture  of  eyes  tear-laden, 

Forbidden  to  weep; 
Like  the  ache  of  dumb  lips  that  must  ever 

In  silence  keep : 
70 


Like  the  pride  of  the  lie,  beloved, 

Though  no  one  believes; 
Like  the  laughter  of  eyes  lest  they  show  you 

A  heart  that  grieves; 
Like  a  voice  seeking  always  an  answer 

It  never  receives, — 
Dear  love,  though  I  cannot  tell  you 

All  pain  can  be, 
From  closer  knowledge,  I  pray,  love, 

God  keep  you  free. 

LILLIAN  B.  QUIMBY. 


"N 


Cllcne. 

EVER  alone  again," 

A  strong  arm  held  me  fast; 
Heart  upon  heart  we  crushed 
The  loneness  of  the  past. 


Loosened  the  tender  clasp, 
As  love  to  darkness  fled. 
"Never  alone  before," 

From  out  the  void,  I  said. 


MAUD  THOMPSON. 


Cbe  Dtptne  Htc$t  of  Kings* 

HTHE  right  divine!     What  king  that  hath  it  not? 

A     The  right  to  look  through  all  his  realm  and  see 
What  fever  courses  in  the  people's  veins, 
And  lay  thereon  the  balm  of  kingly  hands; 
To  turn  aside  the  treasonable  blade, 
And  make  a  friend  of  him  who  carries  it; 
To  bind  up  public  wounds ;  to  put  away 
The  screens  wherewith  men  hide  accusing  truth, 
And  speak  grave  words  when  these  befit  the  time; 
To  sow  the  land  so  full  of  happiness, 
Of  peace  and  justice,  love  and  courtesy, 
That  ships  bound  seaward  unto  fabled  shores 
Shall  never  tempt  his  people  otherwhere : 
Such  right  divine  as  this  hath  every  king. 

MARY  WRIGHT  PLUMMER. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
May,  1882. 


©mar  Khayyam. 

THOU  great  philosopher!  to  whom  belong 
The  laurels  that  a  genius'  brow  entwine, 

Thy  poet's  mantle  thou  didst  stain  with  wine, 
Drowning  thy  bitter  sadness  in  a  song. 
Through  seven  centuries,  still  clear  and  strong, 

Is  sounding  in  our  ears  thy  every  line, 

Whilst  thou,  the  singer,  long  since  didst  resign 
This  tangled  earthly  maze  of  right  and  wrong. 
Somewhere,  it  may  be,  in  that  land  unknown, 
Where  present,  past,  and  future  are  made  one, 

Thy  hopeless  vision  of  fulfilled  desire 
Is  something  nearer  than  a  vision  grown, 

And  the  deep  shadow  of  a  soul  on  fire, 
Lost  in  the  piercing  brightness  of  the  Sun. 

CORNELIA  E.  GREEN. 


73 


CtprtL 

AFTER  the  month  of  the  double  face, 
After  St.  Valentine's  days  of  grace, 
After  the  blast  of  the  trump  of  March, 
With  a  smile  and  a  tear,  with  a  tear  and  a  smile, 
And  a  heart  half  winter's  all  the  while, 

Here's  the  shy  little  month  with  her  glances  arch, 
Here's  the  brave  little  month  of  folly! 

Rain,  rain,  with  the  sun  between ! 
Sun,  sun,  through  the  raindrop's  sheen! 
Sing,  two  leaves  in  a  sheath  of  green 
For  the  sweet  little  month  of  folly. 


Before  the  simple  troth  of  May, 
Before  the  June  in  her  bride's  array, 

Before  the  splendor  of  harvest  gold, 
With  a  tear  and  a  smile,  with  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
And  a  heart  that's  pledged  to  the  whole  of  the  year, 

Here's  the  month  of  promise  come  out  of  the  cold  j 
Here's  the  wise  little  month  of  folly ! 
74 


Rain,  rain,  with  the  sun  between! 
Sun,  sun,  through  the  raindrop's  sheen ! 
Sing,  two  leaves  in  a  sheath  of  green 
For  the  sweet  little  month  of  folly. 

MARY  RUSSELL  BARTLETT. 

The  Independent, 
April,  1893. 

Ct  picture. 

A  SUNSET  of  gold  on  the  tree  tops  is  gleaming, 
A  glimmering  sheen  on  the  water's  calm  breast, 
A  boat,  as  it  glides  through  sunset  clear  splendor, 
Bears  Beauty  and  Gladness  away  to  the  west. 

While  eyes  tell  to  eyes  the  sweet  secret  of  loving, 
Blue  eyes  to  brown,  and  brown  eyes  to  blue, 

Till  deep  in  the  heart  of  each,  as  they're  drifting, 
There  settles  a  glow  like  the  sunset's  rich  hue. 

Out  of  the  glow;  mid  the  shadows  that  gather 
Along  the  lone  shore ;  in  a  maze  of  despair, 

The  soul  of  another,  with  loving  and  longing, 
Turns  backward  to  night,  to  toil,  and  to  prayer. 

ALMA  E.  BEALE. 

75 


ENSHRINED  on  high,  in  my  soul's  holy  place, 
I  made  a  god,  what  others  called  mere  clay : 
I  brought  my  all,  and  knelt  there  night  and  day, 
With  incense  of  pure  love,  and  lifted  face 
Wet  with  hot  tears;  while  in  the  altar  space 
Honor,  and  fame,  and  pride  I  cast  away. 
With  outstretched,  straining  arms  I  strove  to  pray, 
"  O  hear  me,  hear  me;  let  my  gifts  find  grace." 

The  dull  eyes  saw,  unmoved ;  no  answer  came 

From  the  mute  lips;  but  echo's  mocking  moan 
At  last  I  knew;  mine,  only  mine  the  blame: 
Mere  stone  and  wood;  the  folly,  the  dark  shame! 
My  punishment  is  on  me;  I  have  grown 
Like  what  I  worshiped,  senseless,  soulless  stone. 

KENT  DUNLAP  HAGLER. 


76 


T 


HERE  is  a  sprightly  maiden 

We  all  know  very  well, 
Who  rides  a  prancing  hobby 

Upon  which  she  loves  to  dwell. 
This  hobby  is  not  learning, 

Though  in  that  she  does  excel, 
Nor  yet  the  rights  of  woman, 

Which  she  upholds  so  well. 

For  dress  reform  she's  striving, 

And  more  eloquent  is  she 
Than  any  Daniel  Webster 

Or  a  Henry  Clay  could  be. 
If  her  dress  should  be  constricting 

To  her  super-human  breath, 
She  would  cry  with  Patrick  Henry, 
*'  Give  me  liberty,  or  death." 

MABEL  W.  WHITE. 


77 


£>et." 

(Written  on  hearing  a  boys'  choir  sing   Handel's  Hallelujah 
Chorus,) 


R 


OWS  of  earnest  boyish  faces 

Were  before  me,  while  the  strain 
Of  a  wondrous,  glorious  anthem 

Soared  aloft,  as  if  to  gain 
Entrance  at  the  pearly  portals 

Of  the  city  paved  with  gold, 
And  the  fresh,  sweet,  boyish  voices, 

Sang  once  more  the  prayer  of  old. 


"Lamb  of  God  have  mercy  on  us, 

Grant,  O  grant  to  us  Thy  peace!" 
Agnus  Dei,  give  them  answer; 

May  their  praises  never  cease! 
Then  the  victor's  song  of  triumph ; 

Loud  the  grand,  sweet  chorus  rings, 
"Hallelujah,  hallelujah! 

Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings." 

And  the  boys  were  all  so  earnest, 
Sang  with  all  their  soul  and  might, 

Still  so  young  and  unacquainted 
With  the  world's  cold,  weary  night. 

78 


Can  it  be,  I  thought,  and  shuddered, 

That  the  boyish  voices  sweet 
E'er  shall  speak,  in  words  unholy, 

Things  less  grand,  less  pure,  repeat? 

Ah !  there  lies  stretched  out  before  them 

Life  with  all  its  various  ways ; 
All  will  not  be  hallelujahs, 

All  will  not  be  songs  of  praise. 
But  the  Lamb  of  God,  who  taketh 

From  the  world  the  stains  of  sin, 
Ever  liveth,  never  changeth : 

May  He  keep  them  pure  within. 

And  my  heart  this  prayer  would  offer: 

Thou  great  Shepherd  of  Thy  sheep, 
May  these  boys  all  know  and  love  Thee, 

All  Thy  blessed  precepts  keep. 
Consecrate,  dear  Lord,  and  guard  them, 

May  their  praises  never  cease : 
"  Lamb  of  God,  have  mercy  on  them; 

Grant,  O  grant  to  them  Thy  peace." 

JOSEPHA  VIRGINIA  SWEETSER. 

The  Watchman. 

79 


(Lountry  Cfyilbrett, 

T    ITTLE  fresh  violets, 
-I— '     Born  in  the  wildwood, 
Sweetly  illustrating 

Innocent  childhood ! 
Shy  as  an  antelope 
Brown  as  a  berry, 
Free  as  the  mountain  air, 
Romping  and  merry. 

Blue  eyes  and  hazel  eyes 

Peep  from  the  hedges, 
Shaded  by  sunbonnets 

Frayed  at  the  edges; 
Up  in  the  apple  tree, 

Heedless  of  danger, 
Manhood  in  embryo 

Stares  at  the  stranger. 

Under  the  orchard  trees 
Seeking  for  cherries, 

Out  in  the  meadow  lands 
Hunting  for  berries ; 

80 


Now  in  the  clover  fields, 

Tramping  down  grasses, 
No  voice  to  hinder  them, 

Dear  lads  and  lasses! 

Little  fresh  violets, 

Born  in  the  wildwood ! 
Oh  that  all  little  ones 

Had  such  a  childhood ! 
God's  blue  spread  over  them, 

God's  green  beneath  them, — 
No  sweeter  heritage 

Could  we  bequeath  them! 

MARY  ALLISON  BINGHAM. 


'W.B 


HY  waste  your  time  on  him?"  I  said; 

The  man  is  silly,  stupid,  flat." 
Rebelliously  she  shook  her  head, — 
"A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that." 


81 


w 


on  tfye 


ARM  and  still,  as  if  in  dreaming, 
Lies  the  valley,  green  and  low; 

Trailing  clouds  above  are  gleaming 
In  the  sunset  afterglow. 

Changing,  shifting,  and  dissolving, 
Paling  in  the  purple  west, 

Man  from  toil  and  care  absolving, 
See,  they  fold  the  world  to  rest. 

Never  yet  in  song  or  story, 

Though  with  color  richly  dight, 

Has  the  poet  caught  the  glory 
Of  that  amethystine  light; 

Shades  too  rare  for  pen  of  mortals, 
Tints  of  many  a  precious  gem, 

Like  the  stones  beneath  the  portals 
Of  the  new  Jerusalem. 


For  in  opalescent  splendor 
On  the  sunlit  slopes  are  set 

Hues  of  jacinth,  pure  and  tender, 
Chrysoprase  and  violet. 

And  a  strangely  solemn  gladness 
Steals  across  us  from  the  steep, 

Full  of  awe,  and  touched  with  sadness,- 
Longings  infinite  and  deep. 

Not  as  when  on  cloud-capped  Sinai 
Lurid  lightnings  lit  the  gloom; 

But  as  when  the  fair  Shechinah 
Filled  the  aloe-scented  room. 

Such  mute  moods  of  nature  win  us 
To  the  holy  calm  of  prayer ; 

And  the  yearning  spirit  in  us, 
Cleansed  of  its  dark  despair, 

Rises  far  above  terrestrial 
Moil  and  soul-corroding  care, 

And  on  wings  of  hope  celestial 
Breathes  a  finer,  freer  air. 

85 


w 


Ctmltgfyt  on  tfye  fjills, 

ARM  and  still,  as  if  in  dreaming, 
Lies  the  valley,  green  and  low; 

Trailing  clouds  above  are  gleaming 
In  the  sunset  afterglow. 


Changing,  shifting,  and  dissolving, 
Paling  in  the  purple  west, 

Man  from  toil  and  care  absolving, 
See,  they  fold  the  world  to  rest. 

Never  yet  in  song  or  story, 

Though  with  color  richly  dight, 

Has  the  poet  caught  the  glory 
Of  that  amethystine  light; 

Shades  too  rare  for  pen  of  mortals, 
Tints  of  many  a  precious  gem, 

Like  the  stones  beneath  the  portals 
Of  the  new  Jerusalem. 

84 


For  in  opalescent  splendor 

On  the  sunlit  slopes  are  set 
Hues  of  jacinth,  pure  and  tender, 

Chrysoprase  and  violet. 

And  a  strangely  solemn  gladness 
Steals  across  us  from  the  steep, 

Full  of  awe,  and  touched  with  sadness,- 
Longings  infinite  and  deep. 

Not  as  when  on  cloud-capped  Sinai 
Lurid  lightnings  lit  the  gloom; 

But  as  when  the  fair  Shechinah 
Filled  the  aloe-scented  room. 

Such  mute  moods  of  nature  win  us 
To  the  holy  calm  of  prayer; 

And  the  yearning  spirit  in  us, 
Cleansed  of  its  dark  despair, 

Rises  far  above  terrestrial 
Moil  and  soul-corroding  care, 

And  on  wings  of  hope  celestial 
Breathes  a  finer,  freer  air. 

85 


Heaven  seems  so  close  above  us, 

Earthly  clamors  softly  cease; 
In  our  hearts  a  gentle  love  is, 

Silence  deep,  and  utter  peace. 

What  are  we  that  we  should  sigh  at 

Aught  that  mars  our  joy  to-day  ? 
All  unrest  is  hushed  in  quiet, 

Clamant  passion  dies  away; 

And  our  souls,  so  long  by  labor, 

Sin,  and  sore  temptation  tried, 
Seem  to  stand  at  last  on  Tabor, 

Radiant  and  glorified ! 

ANNA  ROBERTSON  BROWN  LINDSAY. 


86 


©be  to 

[Aspiration  speaks  on  Truth.] 

O  WHITE  soul,  know  thou  well  this  one  first  truth, 
That  knowledge  cannot  compass  nor  endure, 
That  certainty  conceals,  none  can  be  sure, 
Yet  in  each  one  soul's  limit  the  thread  of  Truth 
Runs  evermore,  and  links  the  good  to  good. 
Scan  close  what  then  thou  hast  of  knowledge  won 
Within  the  light  of  Truth.     Search  deep  thine  own 
True  ideal  self,  and  in  that  self  alone 
Work  out  thy  life's  activity,  and  in  the  world 
Where  now  thou  goest  know  it  all  is  part. 
The  world  exists  for  thee ;  build  thou  thy  world 
According  to  the  best  thou  canst  discern; 
Then  shalt  thou  ever  live,  forever  turn, 
My  star  set  close  above,  my  lamp  before  thee, 
To  greet  the  new  experience  joyfully; 
Till,  all  complete,  the  gray  veil  drawn  away, 
In  the  clear  light  of  thine  own  heart 
Truth  stands  revealed  alway. 

MARY  HEFFERAN. 

Tree-day  Poem,  1896. 

87 


Compensation* 

A     SUMMER'S  eve,  a  moonlit  sky, 
f*     A  sea,  soft  water's  purl, 

A  tiny  boat,  and  two  spoon-oars, 
A  pretty  Wellesley  girl. 

I  watched  her  face ;  methought  it  glowed 
With  trust  and  sweet  content. 

I  paused,  and  resting  both  my  oars, 
On  tend'rest  theme  was  bent, 

When  lo!  she,  grasping  at  those  oars 

This  scornful  speech  did  throw: 
"I  cannot  stand  it  any  more; 
I'll  show  you  how  to  row! 

Like  this — see  there — you  strike  out  so—- 
Like that — 'tis  new  to  you? 
'When  did  I  learn?'    O,  long  ago; 
I'm  on  a  Wellesley  Crew !  " 

I  sat  in  silence  meekly  by, 
And  swallowed  all  my  pride, 

While  ev'ry  pretty,  tender  word 
Was  straightway  petrified. 


They  ne'er  were  spoken,  and  I  fear 
They  ne'er  may  spoken  be; 

But  I  can  row  the  Wellesley  stroke, 
So  what  is  that  to  me? 


ALICE  WELCH  KELLOGG. 


IDfyen  tfye  IHtst  (Ecmte  up  from  tfye 

WHEN   the   mist  came   up   from   the    marsh  last 
night, 

The  moon  hung  low  in  the  fading  light 
Her  golden  bow  in  the  western  sky; 
A  glow  remained  where  the  sunsets  die, 
When  the  mist  came  up  from  the  marsh. 

When  the  mist  came  up  from  the  marsh  last  night, 
The  tangled  reeds  from  the  mantle  white 

Stared  out  like  thoughts  thro'  the  mist  of  years, 
And  the  evening  wind  had  a  sound  of  tears, 
When  the  mist  came  up  from  the  marsh. 

SARAH  CHAMBERLIN  WEED. 


89 


o 


Ct  Carol. 

[Standard  of  the  Cross.] 

I'ER  the  silent  meadows, 

O'er  the  sleeping  town, 
O'er  the  murmuring  forest 

Pours  a  radiance  down : 
'Tis  a  starry  splendor 

Glorifying  night; 
Shepherds,  kings,  and  sages 

Wonder  at  the  sight. 

See,  O  kings  and  shepherds, 

Magi  from  afar, 
Cradled  in  a  manger 

Israel's  Morning  Star! 
And  through  parted  heavens 

Lo!  the  angelic  throng 
Voice  their  adoration 

In  triumphant  song. 

O'er  the  silent  meadows 
Floats  the  joyful  strain; 

O'er  the  murmuring  forest 
List !  it  comes  again  : 
90 


Glory  in  the  highest!" 

Hark  !  O  sleeping  town  ; 
Peace,  good  will"  —  the  blessing 

Still  to  earth  comes  down. 

Still  the  starry  wonder 

Of  that  long-past  night 
Gleams  adown  the  ages, 

Filling  all  with  light; 
And  all  Nature,  joining, 

Swells  the  anthem  still,  — 
Glory  in  the  highest; 

On  earth,  peace,  good  will." 

HARRIOT  BREWER  STERLING. 


U/^OOD-BY,"  we  say,  but  never  part, 

Such  tried,  old  friends  as  you  and  I! 
In  you,  Old  Year,  I  found  my  heart; 
In  you  I  learned  to  live  or  die. 

In  you  I  learned  to  pity  sin, 
In  you  to  suffer  and  be  strong; 

In  you  to  seek  the  peace  within, 
To  love  the  right  and  hate  the  wrong. 

NANCY  K.  FOSTER. 
91 


Boo!  f}oo ! 

[A  Wellesley  Glee.] 

BOO!  hoo!     Mamma,  take  me  home; 
Ev'rybody  here's  so  hard  on  me. 
Oh!  oh!  why  did  I  from  you  roam, 

To  take  up  my  abode  in  Wellesley? 
Boo !  hoo !  they  fill  up  all  my  day 

With   English,  Greek  and  Latin,  Math,  and  Gym. 
Oh !  oh !  and  then  they  kindly  say, 
"  Plenty  time  to  spatziergehen  in." 
Boo!  hoo!     Boo!  hoo!     Boo!  hoo! 

Boo !  hoo !  they  say  I  must  expand 

To  meet  the  broader  needs  of  woman  kind. 
Oh!  oh!  I  think  I'm  fat  enough 

To  satisfy  the  most  ambitious  mind. 
Boo!  hoo!  they  make  me  dust  and  sweep 

A  great  big  gloomy  room,  called  P.  L.  R. 
Oh !  oh !  they  make  me  go  to  sleep 

No  matter  how  unlearned  my  lessons  are. 
Boo!  hoo!     Boo!  hoo!     Boo!  hoo! 

Boo !  hoo !  I  miss  my  dolly  so ! 

Won't  you  send  her  on,  Ma?    That's  a  dear. 

92 


Oh!  oh!  'twould  comfort  me,  I  know, 
And  then  when  I'm  alone  I'd  have  no  fear. 

Boo!  hoo!  I  'most  forgot  to  say 
There  are  some  dreadful  girls  called  sophomores. 

Oh !  oh !  I  heard  my  roommate  say 
That  they  were  going  to  haze  us. 
(Spoken:)     (What's  that,  Ma?) 

Boo !  hoo !     Boo !  hoo !     Boo !  hoo ! 

3anuary  tn  Ptrgtma* 

TALL  rose  trees  bend,  with  swelling  buds  agleam; 
The  quaint  red  quince  flowers  flaunt  their  bits 
of  flame ; 

Some  strange  white  petals  breathe  a  fragrance  rare 
Across  the  languor  of  the  Southern  air; 
And  graceful  golden  sprays  of  jasmine  fall 
In  witching  sunshine  on  the  hidden  wall. 

The  May-sprites  must  be  dancing  in  the  breeze ; 
The  jasmine  holds  the  magic  of  the  Spring, 
And  sends  me  memories,  longings,  smiles,  and  tears, 
Which  only  Northern  violets  used  to  bring. 

LILIAN  B.  MINER. 

The  Youth's  Companion, 
Jan.  22,  1891. 

93 


'THIS  Hallowe'en; 

1       The  frosty  sky  is  bright 

With  deep-set  gems. 
The  moon's  kiss  falls  in  sweet 
Beneficence  upon  the  earth. 
Methinks  it  is  a  blessing 
On  our  heads,  my  love, 
This  Hallowe'en. 

'Tis  Hallowe'en; 
What  spirits  flit  about 

On  yonder  wood, 
Like  shades  upon  the  banks 
Of  silent  Styx?    You  start,  my  sweet. 
Nay,  'tis  the  oak  tree  parting 
With  their  leaves.     They  sigh 

This  Hallowe'en. 

'Tis  Hallowe'en; 
Bright  Autumn's  death  is  here, 

And  Winter  reigns. 
But  is  it  Death?    Ah,  no; 
A  holy  rest  and  peace  o'er  all, 

94 


That  yields  its  benediction 
To  our  hearts,  my  love, 

This  Hallowe'en. 

AGNES  S.  COOK. 

Ctn  ©ctober  Hose* 

YET    one    more   rose.      One   left,    that    Fall    may- 
know 

The  color,  fragrance,  zest,  of  Summer's  show. 
And  ask'st  thou  why  she  lingers  till  the  last, 
When  Summer's  breath  and  Summer's  blooms  are 

past, 

When  Autumn  beckons  her  with  trembling  hand, 
And  all  about  her  dread  forerunners  stand? 
And  think'st  thou  'tis  past  her  time  to  glow, 
This  last,  late  rose? 

So  long  as  suns  shine  warm  and  soft  winds  blow, 
She  blooms  to  let  some  hapless  creature  know 
That  Summer  is  not  dead :  just  at  a  nap 
She  fell  through  drowsy  chance  from  out  her  lap. 
Can'st  thou  not  read  the  message  she  would  show, 
This  last,  sweet  rose? 

The    Outlook,  CLARA   BREWSTER   POTWIN. 

October,  1893. 

95 


Co  2Ttt.  Zltonabnocf  at  Sunrise. 

GRAY  on  thy  crest  the  soft  cloud  curtains  lie, 
Still  guardians  of  thy  morning  slumbering. 
Slow  o'er  thy  head  the  star  host  marches  by 

In  state,  and  far  beyond  man's  numbering. 
The  flocks  repose  upon  thy  quiet  breast; 

All  motionless  they  wait  the  coming  day. 
Thy  somber  rocks  in  shrouds  of  fog  are  drest 

As  penitents  who  early  rise  and  pray. 
And  now  upon  thy  shadowy,  wooded  side, 

Amid  the  forests  with  their  darkly  dight, 
Funeral  plumes  the  king  of  shades  doth  hide, 

And  sighs  and  moans  the  dying  of  the  night. 
But  see!  the  stars  in  heaven  grow  more  pale. 

Awake !  and  bid  thy  coming  sovereign  hail. 

EVANGELINE   KENDALL. 


96 


(Exeunt 

RING  down  the  purple  curtains  of  the  night! 
The  play  is  played ;  the  guests  have  gone  away. 
Why  sit  we  staring  at  the  empty  stage, 
The  dying  footlights,  all  the  equipage 

Of  motley  fool  and  reveller,  seen  but  gray 
Where  shadows  hide  the  painted  scenes  from  sight? 

The  play  is  played :  come  out  into  the  dark ! 

The  far,  white  stars  are  burning  in  their  place; 
From  mountain  highlands  blows  a  great,  cool  breath. 
Art  thou  afraid?  Nay,  love,  it  is  but  death. 

Earth's     masque     is     done.       Lift     up     thine 

unchanged   face! 
Across  the  meadows  sings  the  morning  lark. 

LILLIAN  CORBETT  BARNES. 

Lippincott's  Magazine, 
February,  1894. 


97 


Kmgfyteb. 

ALL  night  within  the  dim  cathedral  choir 
He  watched  beside  his  armor:  vigil  kept 
With  prayer  and  fasting,  while  his  fellows  slept; 
And    as    the    gray    dawn    touched    the    cross-capped 

spire, 

There  came  to  him  a  vision.     Holy  fire 
Of  pure  devotion  up  within  him  leapt, 
The  song  of  service  through  his  spirit  swept, — 
God's  accolade  bestowed  on  lowly  squire. 
When  the  sun  shone  across  the  world's  new  day 
They  found  him  at  the  altar.     Not  a  trace 
Of  struggle  on  the  fair,  uplifted  face ; 

And,  as  they  bore  him  home,  they  softly  trod 
With  reverent  feet,  as  those  who  go  to  pray. 

He  died  a  squire :  arise,  O  Knight  of  God ! 

MARY  HOLLANDS  MCLEAN. 


Beatrice  Porttnaru 

OLADY  with  the  calm  and  holy  eyes 
Fixed  ever  steadfast  on  the  Light  Divine, 
What  happy  fate,  what  noble  lot  was  thine, 
Thyself  secure  among  the  blest  and  wise, 
To  draw  thy  poet  lover  to  the  skies, — 

Teach  him  the  secret  meaning  'neath  the  sign, 
And  lead,  through  realms  where  sun  doth  never 

shine, 

His  errant  soul  at  last  to  Paradise? 
Now  in  the  clear  effulgence  of  the  day, 

Close  drawn  together  by  a  deathless  love, 
Thou  and  thy  Dante,  glad,  serene  alway, 
The  joy  of  being  and  its  fullness  prove. 
O  peace  unmeasured,  deep,  and  high  and  broad! 
O  hallowed  union,  perfected  in  God! 

MARY  S.  DANIELS. 


99 


3nmte6  by  ZTEt 


A    CALLOW  youth  received  an  invitation   to  the 
Prom; 
He  scarcely  was  acquainted  with  the  maiden  it  was 

from  ; 
But  not  the  slightest  difference  did  so  small  a  matter 

make 
Unto  this  luckless  youth  who  was  invited  by  mistake. 


CHORUS. 

He  will  never  forget  the  ices, 
He  will  never  forget  the  cake ; 

But  he'll  always  wish  he  hadn't  been 
Invited  by  mistake. 

A  smiling  usher  brought  him   to  a  lady  young  and 

fair; 
Though    neither  e'er  had  seen    the    other,  what   did 

either  care? 

An  introduction  might,  thought  he,  this  rare  enjoy- 
ment break; 
But  she  full  soon  divined  he  was  invited  by  mistake. 


They  wandered  through  the  corridors,  and  out  beneath 
the  sky; 

He  seemed  a  trifle  spoony,  and  he  heaved  a  pensive 
sigh. 

He  grew  more  sentimental  as  they  neared  the  rip- 
pling lake; 

He  said  the  proper  thing,  although  invited  by 
mistake. 

Oh!  artfully  she  led  him  on, — this  fresh  and  verdant 

youth ; 
She  took   some  friends   into   the   plot,  and  fun   they 

had  in  sooth. 
He   thought  she  was   a   freshman,  and,  accordingly, 

he  spake 
Abundant  foolishness,  this  man  invited  by  mistake. 

Still  funnier  he  grew,  and  eke,  he  did  facetiously 

Make  jokes  about  our  rules,  and  e'en  the  sacred 
faculty; 

But  when  she  said  "  Good  night,"  her  words  with 
horror  made  him  quake  : 

"I  am  Professor  Blank;  you  were  invited  by  mis- 
take." 

SARAH  JANE  McNARY. 


2TEy  £orb  tfye  Sun. 

THE  forests  sway,  and  homage  pay, 
As,  rising  from  an  eastern  sea 
Of  rosy  cloud  the  Sun  shines  proud. 

Largess  of  light  he  scatters  free, 
And  showers  around,  with  glory  crowned, 
His  rich  regalia  royally. 

Lo !  gray  cloud-foes  his  path  oppose, 
The  monarch  Sun  of  flight  is  fain ; 

In  mist  chained  fast,  his  splendor  past, 
He  spreads  imploring  rays  in  vain. 

The  face  of  Day,  his  queen,  droops  gray, 
Tear-stained  with  drops  of  falling  rain. 

ISABELLA  H.  FISKE. 


SHY  violets  among  the  tangled  grass; 
Red  robin,  to  thine  own  mate  blithely  singing, 
Among  the  elm-tree  boughs  so  gayly  swinging, 
My  love,  my  true  love,  down  this  way  will  pass. 

How  shall  you  know  her?    By  her  sunny  hair, 
Her  grave,  sweet  eyes,  all  pure,  no  evil  knowing: 
O  robin!  thou  wilt  turn  to  watch  her  going; 

There  is  no  maid  in  all  the  land  so  fair. 

Shy  violets  among  the  tangled  grass, 

Shed  forth  your  richest  perfumes  'neath  her  feet; 
And  gallant  robin,  when  thou  seest  her  pass, 

Trill  out  thy  merriest  lay  her  ears  to  greet; 
And  elm-tree  branches,  drooping  low  above  her, 
Whisper  to  her  that  I  came  by,  and  love  her. 

LOUISE  R.  LOOMIS. 


103 


A  STATELY  lady's  fair-haired  little  page; 
A  "  yong  squyer,"  who  rideth  with  a  king; 
A  poet  taught  of  love  and  grief  to  sing 
In  sad  strain  and  in  sweet;  whose  heritage 
Groweth  the  richer  with  increasing  age, 
Till  gladness,  born  of  many  dawns  in  spring, 
Fills  all  his  soul,  and  merry  notes  outring 
Along  the  road  he  fares  on  pilgrimage. 
O  blithest  spirit  of  our  English  song! 
Down  the  far  centuries  floats  thy  happy  lay, 

Untinged  with  cruel  strife  and  restless  pain; 
Like  a  bird's  carol,  fresh,  and  free,  and  strong, 
It  lifts  its  praise  for  life,  and  love,  and  May 
That  blooms  in  sunshine  after  April  rain. 

MARY  HOLLANDS  MCLEAN. 


104 


tDaban. 


THE  hour  is  slow  and  still  ;  and  day  and  night 
Linger  awhile  together.     How  the  glow 

Fades  in  the  west!     How  all  the  royal  show 
Shades  to  a  dimmer  glory,  like  the  light 
Of  the  flushed  morn,  but  still  subdued,  less  bright; 

And  clear  against  the  rose,  the  moon's  thin  bow 

Is  set.     A  shadow  creeps  the  earth  below, 
Tentative,  following  the  feet  of  Night. 
Ah,  how  the  world  is  fair!     Tired  heart  of  mine, 

The  little  lake  among  the  shadows  there 
Is  the  true  poet;  lifts  her  face,  ashine 

With  rose  and  the  moon's  silverness,  more  fair 
Than  evening's  self.     Here  is  the  heart  divine, 

Unspoiled  by  the  dull  weight  of  self-sought  care. 

S.  VIRGINIA  SHERWOOD. 

At  Wellesley. 


105 


Hoses, 


I   ROAM  in  a  garden,  vestal  fair, 
The  livelong,  tranquil  day, 
Mid  spotless  lilies  and  snowdrops  there, 

And  tremulous  tints  of  May; 
Where  myriad  violets  scent  the  gloom 

Of  the  forest-winding  stream, 
And  throngs  of  white  camellias  bloom 

With  a  chill,  unearthly  gleam. 
But  I  sicken  of  all,  and  cry  to  fate 
For  the  red,  red  roses  beyond  the  gate. 

From  every  land,  from  every  clime, 

The  earth-stars  here  are  come, 
And  proudly  they  banish  the  old  lord  Time 

From  their  glamour-haunted  home. 
But  where  the  dreamful  pansies  grow, 

Uplifting  their  eyes  to  mine, 
I  wander  restless,  and  sad,  and  slow, 

And  seek  for  a  flower  divine. 
Then  I  sicken  of  all,  and  cry  to  fate 
For  the  red,  red  roses  beyond  the  gate. 
106 


For  there,  from  my  vine-wreathed  prison  wall, 

I  see  their  passionate  glow; 
I  catch  a  fragrance  rarer  than  all 

The  breath  of  my  flowers  of  snow. 
The  mystic  light  of  their  dusky  hearts 

Strikes  e'en  my  lilies  dim; 
And  the  wine  of  their  beauty  a  fire  imparts 

That  thrills  through  brain  and  limb. 
So  I  gaze  in  longing,  and  cry  to  fate 
For  the  red,  red  roses  beyond  the  gate. 

"Beyond  the  gates,"  moans  the  wandering  wind, 
"There  are  darker  sights  than  these; 
Freshness  and  bloom  are  hard  to  find, 

And  the  shade  of  Eden  trees. 
But  the  plains  are  bare  and  the  mountains  cold, 

And  drear  is  the  desolate  sea; 
The  woe  of  the  world  is  grim  and  old, 

'Tis  death  to  thy  flowers  and  thee." 
But  I  hearken  not :  I  cry  to  fate 
For  the  red,  red  roses  beyond  the  gate. 

I  know  the  sorrow,  the  gloom,  and  pain 
Of  the  world  to  a  soul  untried ; 
107 


That  my  buds  will  wither,  nor  bloom  again, 

If  the  gate  be  opened  wide. 
But  I  cry  for  freedom,  for  love,  for  life! 

For  the  real  that  conquers  the  dream ! 
And  I  know  that  there,  in  the  heart  of  the  strife, 

The  victor's  banners  gleam. 
So  I  break  the  bar,  and  fly  with  fate 
To  the  red,  red  roses  beyond  the  gate. 

MARION  PELTON  GUILD. 


a  Hose, 

[    SAW  it  lying  on  the  floor, 
L     The  rose  I  gave  her  yesterday; 
The  little  flower  she  prized  no  more 
Than  just  to  wear,  then  throw  away. 

Its  beauty  gone,  its  fragrance  sweet 
Spent  all  in  vain  upon  the  air; 

I  found  it  lying  at  my  feet, 

Where  it  had  fallen  from  her  hair. 

JOSEPHINE  P.  SIMRALL. 

108 


Ctlma  ZTTater. 

TO  Alma  Mater,  Wellesley's  daughters, 
All  together  join  and  sing; 
Through  all  her  wealth  of  wood  and  waters 
Let  your  happy  voices  ring. 

In  every  changing  mood  we  love  her, 
Love  her  towers,  and  wood,  and  lake. 

O  changeful  sky,  bend  blue  above  her; 
Wake,  ye  birds,  your  chorus  wake! 

We  sing  her  praises  now  and  ever, 

Blessed  fount  of  truth  and  love ; 
Our  heart's  devotion,  may  it  never 

Faithless  or  unworthy  prove. 

We'll  give  our  hearts  and  lives  to  serve  her, 

Humblest,  highest,  noblest,  all. 
A  stainless  name  we  will  preserve  her, 

Answer  to  her  ev'ry  call. 

ANNE  BARRETT  HUGHES. 


109 


THE  sun  had  gone,  and  the  shadowy  night 
Had  chased  from  the  sky  the  last  warm  light, 
When  the  waiting  wind  crept  forth,  and  said, 
"I  will  shake  the  reeds  and  the  grasses  dead, 
And  twist  the  boughs  till  they  writhe  and  groan, 
And  the  swaying  pines  shall  wail  and  moan. 
And  I'll  blow  and  blow  where  I  please,"  cried  he; 
"There  is  none  to  see." 

Then  the  withered  grasses  were  bended  low, 
And  the  quivering  reeds  shook  to  and  fro, 
While  a  sad  wail  came  from  the  old  pine  tree, 
And  the  wind  laughed  on,  "There  is  none  to  see." 
Then  softly,  O  softly,  so  bright  and  still, 
The  wide-eyed  moon  came  over  the  hill ; 
Came  over  and  looked  with  her  clear,  full  light 
Out  into  the  night. 

The  telltale  shadows  began  to  move 
As  the  moon  kept  watch  from  the  hill  above. 
The  baffled  wind  stood  still;  said  he, 
"If  I  twist  the  branches  the  moon  will  see, 
And  the  shadows  tell  if  I  try  to  blow." 
no 


With  a  last  low  sigh  he  turned  to  go, 
While  the  shadows  still  and  the  moon's  full  light 
Watched  out  the  night. 

SARAH  CHAMBERLIN  WEED. 


CAN  I  tell  you  how  I  love  you, 
With  your  beautiful  brown  eyes, 
And  your  pretty  lips,  just  parted, 
In  a  smile  both  sweet  and  wise? 

No ;  I  know  I  cannot  tell  you 

How  the  one  warm  spot  you  bring, 

Gives  my  life,  so  cold  and  wintry, 
All  the  warmth  of  sunny  spring. 

Surely,  I  shall  ne'er  forget  you 
Through  life's  mingled  joy  and  care, 

Darling  little  furry  sable, 

That  around  my  throat  I  wear! 

GERTRUDE  JONES. 


3n  f}onorem:  ^enry  $*  Z)urant 

( S>ui  numquam  quierit,  quiescit.) 

INTO  what  key  shall  glide  the  lingering  strain — 

A     The  slow,  sad  minor  that  laments  the  dead? 

Or  the  strong  paean,  with  exultant  tread 

Timing  the  march  to  victory  and  gain  ? 

Shall  the  fond  heart  the  happy  past  arraign, 

Virtue  on  virtue,  grace  on  grace,  to  plead, 

Till  whoso  runs  shall  be  constrained  to  read 

The  record  of  a  work  without  a  stain  ? 

To  the  quick  soul,  past  moments  flung  aside 

No  more  like  perishable  vestments  cling : 

Success  or  failure  lose  their  shame  or  pride, 

And  death,  by  Christ's  sure  balm,  doth  lose  its  sting* 

But  faith,  and  hope,  and  love, — these  three  abide: 

His  love,  hope,  faith, — these  three  alone  we  sing. 

However  glad  the  days  that  we  have  spent, 
We  trust  that  gladder  days  are  yet  to  be. 
Crossing  we  know  not  what  of  land  or  sea, 
In  wealthier  vineyards  we  shall  pitch  a  tent, 
With  Eschol's  heavier  clusters  downward  bent. 
And  yet  we  need  not  think  regretfully 


Of  him,  our  leader  and  our  guide,  for  he 
By  faith  had  seen  it  all  before  he  went. 
From  the  slow-gathering  shades  wherein  he  stood, 
He  spake  as  the  beloved  patriarch  spake : 
"I  die, — but  God  shall  visit  you  with  good: 
You  shall  go  up,  my  children,  and  shall  take 
My  prayer,  my  plan,  my  purpose  for  your  sake, 
Into  your  promised  land  of  womanhood." 

"Let  it  be  Christ's,"  he  said;  and  yet  again, 

"Let  it  be  Christ's":  and  this  one  choice  was  all. 

Lesser  desires,  designs,  may  fail  and  fall, 

However  close  unto  the  hearts  of  men ; 

May  withering  cling  as  shapely  leaves  do  when 

The  growing  stalk  shoots  upward  straight  and  tall, 

Rearing  above  the  human-fashioned  wall 

Its  heavenly  blossom.     Rudely,  until  then, 

The  leaf  had  typified  the  flower  that  came. 

A  friend's  soft  hand  may  pluck  it  now  away 

To  treasure,  or  a  hostile  foot  may  blame 

And  trample :  the  same  sap,  the  vital  aim, 

Climbs  to  the  flower  whereon  all  glances  stay, 

And  none  its  fragrant  symmetry  gainsay. 

MARY  RUSSELL  BARTLETT. 

"3 


apart. 

1   WOULD  not  call  thee  back  to  me  to-night, 
Although  my  eager  spirit  turns  to  thee 

With  weary  longing,  and  my  eyes  would  see 
Thy  face  aglow  with  spirit's  power  and  might. 
The  sunset  glow,  the  hillsides,  every  sight 

Of  these  familiar  paths  brings  thoughts  of  thee. 

Thy  name  the  maples  whisper  o'er  to  me, 
Rustling  their  scarlet  leaves  in  golden  light. 
Yet,  though  my  heart  doth  yearn  to  have  thee  near, 

I  will  not  call  thee  back.  Love  hath  no  end 
Where  daily  intercourse  alone  is  dear, 

Where  spirit  unto  spirit  cannot  send 
Its  quickening  power,  though  miles  between  us  roll : 
We  still  shall  touch  each  other  soul  to  soul. 

GERTRUDE  SPAULDING  HENDERSON. 


114 


v  RE AMILY,  dreamily  swinging,  swaying, 

Blow  as  the  blossoms  blow, — 
Babekyn  rocks  in  a  faery  cradle, 
Now  high,  now  low. 

Babekyn  rocks  in  a  faery  cradle, 
Hung  from  the  white  moon's  horn, 

Pillowed  on  clinging,  shimmering  fleeces, 
From  bright  clouds  shorn. 

Gleefully,  daintily  swinging,  swaying, 
Blossoms  blow  light  in  the  wind; 

Dawn-tinted  petals   fall  thickly,  till  baby 
Is  hard  to  find. 

Wearily,  wearily  rocking,  swaying, 

Even  the  robins  rest; 
When  the  sun  is  dead  and  the  blossoms  shiver, 

Long  dreams  are  best. 

EMILY  S.  JOHNSON. 


Y 


DIRECTIONS. 

OU  take  a  few  pieces  of  zinc, 

And  put  in  your  generator; 
Add  water,  then  plug  in  the  cork, 

And  pour  in  H2SC>4. 

OBSERVATIONS. 

The  action  was  not  very  brisk 

When  I  put  in  H2SO4, 
So  I  tried  nitric  acid,  to  see 

If  the  thing  wouldn't  bubble  up  more. 

CONCLUSIONS. 
As  I  wiped  up  the  acid  and  zinc, 

And  swept  up  the  glass  from  the  floor, 
I  concluded  I'd  stick  to  directions, 

And  try  my  own  methods  no  more. 

MARY  ENO  RUSSELL. 


116 


Co  an  ©riole, 

QWEETEST  warbler  of  the  Maytime, 
**-J     Rich  thy  liquid  note,  and  rare! 
Thou'rt  a  lover;  I  can  tell  it 
By  thy  bold,  yet  coaxing  air. 

'Tis  thy  loved  one  thou  art  calling 
To  thy  swinging  dell  aloft, 

'Mid  the  blossoms  Maytime  opens, 
'Mid  a  fragance  sweet  and  soft. 

Now  I  see  thee,  orange-breasted, 

Flitting  by  on  love  intent; 
Ah!  thy  song-tale  is  the  sweetest 

Lover  ere  to  loved  one  sent. 

Blossom  bower !  Maytime  fragrance ! 

Subtle  charm  of  lover's  song! 
Who  resists  you,  who  but  loves  you? 

Loves  you  fond,  and  loves  you  long! 


ALMA  E.  BEALE. 


117 


Boating  Song. 

AWAY,  away!  more  fleet  than  thought  can  follow, 
Like  a  swallow 
Flies  our  winged  boat  along; 
In  measured  strokes  our  strength  the  lithe  oar  bending, 

Voices  blending, 
Wake  the  echoes  with  our  song. 

REFRAIN. 
Voices  blending 
With  the  waves  in  glad  refrain 
Wake  the  echoes  with  our  strain. 

Away,  away!  we  leave  the  task  enthralling. 

Winds  are  calling, 
Morn  is  laughing  in  the  sky; 
Before  our  boat  the  blithe  waves,  quick  retreating, 

Timid  greeting, 
Murmur  as  we  hurry  by. 

Away,  away!  no  thought  of  dull  to-morrow: 

Now  we  borrow 

Mirth  and  freedom  from  the  day. 
Each  restless  heart  with  calm  and  courage  filling, 

Hope  instilling, 
Glide  the  careless  hours  away. 

KENT  DUNLAP  HAGLER. 

118 


w 


Co . 

E  sat  at  the  concert,  she  and  I. 
She  toyed  with  a  rose; 
Her  eyes  glanced  down ; 
Her  gown  was  brown. 

To  its  very  close 
The  song  was  of  love- 
Deep  love — that  struggles, 
That  suffers,  yet  does  not  die. 

Do  you  think  she  heard  and  felt  its  power, 

As,  one  by  one, 
Down  at  her  feet 
Fell  the  petals  sweet, 

Till  the  song  was  done? 
That  my  heart  lay,  too, 
'Midst  fragrance  and  song, 
She  knew, — yet  toyed  with  her  flower. 

MARY  OTIS  MALONE. 


119 


r.  (£btt>arb  ©Iney,  Sir, 

[Imitated  by  an  Englishman  in  "  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere."] 


M 


R.  EDWARD  OLNEY,  sir, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 
You  thought  to  write  an  Algebra 

For  pastime  ere  your  sun  went  down. 
You're  not  the  child  to  draw  it  mild ; 
The  very  Sphinx  your  pen  inspired; 
The  father  of  an  hundred  woes, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  admired. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

I  know  you  proud  to  evolve  your  surds; 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  count  myself  three  thirds. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  bounds  to  truer  glee; 
A  single  line  of  Thomas  Hood 

Is  worth  a  dozen  formulae. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  could  I  mete  the  Milky  Way, 

I  would  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 


You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  cube, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply; 
Your  stovepipe  hat  upon  the  nail 

Is  not  more  stiff  to  you  than  I. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

You  bring  strange  sights  before  my  eye; 
Not  thrice  your  birthday  cakes  have  baked 

Since  I  beheld  young  Phoebe  cry. 
O,  your  curved  lines!  your  minus  signs! 

A  great  professor  you  may  be, 
But  there  was  that  upon  her  cheek 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

When  thus  she  met  her  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, — 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you; 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  could  justly  be  defined. 
Her  sentence  lacked  the  accurate  terms 

That  stamp  a  mathematic  mind. 

Mr.  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

A  specter  haunts  your  college  walk : 


The  guilt  of  tears  is  at  your  door; 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  chalk. 
You  fixed  the  course  without  remorse, 

Regardless  of  her  sore  lament; 
And  when  the  day  of  trial  came, 

You  slew  her  with  an  eight  per  cent. 

Trust  me,  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

Orion  and  the  Pleiades, 
From  the  blue  heavens  above  us  bent, 

Smile  at  your  minutes  and  degrees. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me 

'Tis  only  fair  ourselves  to  please ; 
Dry  eyes  are  more  than  decimals, 

And  happy  hearts  than  indices. 

I  know  you,  Edward  Olney,  sir; 

You  pine  among  your  roots  and  powers : 
The  rolling  light  of  your  red  eyes 

Is  weary  of  the  languid  hours. 
'Mid  wondering  trains,  with  boundless  brains, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  factor  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 


Edward,  Edward  Olney,  sir, 

If  time  hangs  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  hinges  off  your  gate, 

Nor  any  weeds  upon  your  lands  ? 
O,  teach  your  little  girl  to  bake, 

Or  teach  your  little  boy  to  hoe! 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  freshman  go. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES. 


W 


[From  the  German  of  Schultz.] 

HEN  the  Sun  himself  would  mirror, 

He  does  not  need  the  sea; 
A  reflector  of  his  splendor 

E'en  the  smallest  drop  may  be. 
But  the  water  clear  as  crystal 

Must  be,  whether  drop  or  sea ; 
For  the  pure  alone  a  mirror 
Of  the  pure  can  ever  be, 

ANNE  BARRETT  HUGHES. 
"3 


Sy  XOaban  Banfs. 

FLUTE  of  mine,  break  into  song 
For  the  fleur-de-lis  that  throng 

Prisoned  in  the  measure! 
Add  the  whirr  of  butterfly, 
Gnat,  and  spider,  cruising  by 
On  their  June-tide  pleasure. 

Let  the  prickly  sedge  have  part 

In  the  melody,  its  art, 

And  the  dimpling  waters. 

Filmy,  gauze-bedappled  things, 

Bring  them  in  with  all  their  wings- 
Summer's  sons  and  daughters. 

Cicada  and  dragon  fly, 
Bees  and  beetled  hosts  awry, 

Grasshopper  and  cricket, 
Locust  and  papilio, 
Feathered  moths  that  wander  slow 

Through  the  ferny  thicket. 

Then  a  larger  music  roll : 
Let  it  be  the  oriole, 

124 


Let  it  be  the  plover, 
Kingfisher  and  secret  thrush, 
Wren  and  blackbird — then  a  hush — 

Sing  the  rosy  clover! 
Hymn  the  purple  violet, 
Pitcher  plants  and  meadows  wet — 

Chant  the  marish  reaches. 
— Pipe  the  gurgling,  pleasant  sound 
Of  my  least  of  boats,  aground 

On  the  least  of  beaches. 

LILLIAN  CORBETT  BARNES. 


M 


Y  garden,  Lord,  is  filled  with  flowers, 

Roseate-hued  or  pale  : 
Some  flowers  needing  sheltered  bowers, — 
Some,  strong  alone,  like  sun-lit  towers. 

It  is  a  needless  tale 
To  tell  to  Thee  their  names — the  measure 

Of  life  in  each  one's  part. 
Thou  knowest  all  my  garden  treasure, 

Dear  Lord !     It  is  my  heart. 

BERTHA  PALMER. 

"5 


o 


Ct&es. 

H  !  the  sea  hath  its  ebb,  and  the  sea  hath  its  flow, 

And  is  ever  the  same  great  sea! 
Now  tossing  their  spray  like  the  wreathed  snow, 

And  laughing  aloud  in  their  glee, 
In  swift  submission,  glad,  complete, 

That  fills  my  soul  with  delight, 
The  strong  waves  cast  them  low  at  my  feet, 

For  now  'tis  the  tide's  full  height. 

Last  night  the  moon  smiled  fair  and  free, 

But  the  waves  were  all  withdrawn, 
And  the  line  of  foam  shone  filmily, 

Like  a  drifting  cloud  at  dawn; 
And  long  I  paced  the  wet  sea  floor, 

With  glimmering  spoil  o'erstrewn, 
While  the  flood  receded  more  and  more, 

Like  a  vanishing,  far-off  tune. 

So  love  hath  its  ebb,  and  love  hath  its  flow, 

And  is  ever  the  same  great  love ; 
Through  many  a  change  our  moon  may  go, 

But  never  can  remove. 
126 


To-day,  in  full  surrender  sweet, 

It  pours  a  lavish  tide, 
The  breathless  soul  stands  forth  to  greet, 

With  eager  arms  flung  wide. 

Yestreen  in  silent,  dark  repose 

The  conscious  waters  lay, 
As  if  they  fled  pursuing  foes, 

Or  feared  their  queen's  dear  sway. 
But  never  a  doubt  or  a  torturing  pang, 

As  I  walked  the  shore,  had  I, 
For  "The  sea  is  the  sea,"  to  myself  I  sang, 

"At  low  tide  as  at  high." 

JOSEPHINE  A.  CASS. 

£tfe  anb  £)eatfy. 

T    IFE  is  short; 
•*— '     Death  is  long. 
Life's  the  prelude; 
Death's  the  song. 

The  prelude  is  sweet, 

But  the  song  ends  never; 

Its  music  of  peace 
Fills  the  vast  forever. 

MABEL  A.  CARPENTER. 

127 


Cfye  passing  SouL 

THE    passing  soul  yearns  forth   from  wistful  eyes, 
Whose  solemn  gaze  is  more  than  mortal-wise, 
On  death ;   and  we  who  in  the  earthways  fair 
Held  with  her  pace  for  pace — we  may  not  share 
That  incommunicable,  far  surprise. 

Yet  must  our  grief-bewildered  hearts  surmise 
How,  with  those  slow-drawn,  laboring,  dying  sighs 
Time  ebbs  away,  and  yields  to  heavenly  care 
The  passing  soul. 

Our  sorrow  wanes  from  her,  our  living  guise 
Is  dreamlike.     Hushed  in  God's  own  hand  she  lies. 
Deep  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  there 
His  rod  and  staff  they  comfort  her.     We  bear 
The  bitterness  of  death,  but  softly  flies 
The  passing  soul. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES* 


Cfye  Zctgbt  Winb  in  IDinter. 

[T  toils  unceasing,  restless  of  all  hope, 
A  rushing  sound  that  sweeps  the  universe, 
Whirling  a  moan  in  rhythmical  response 

That  swells  out  high,  then  mutters  like  a  curse. 

It  seems  at  times  the  conscience  of  the  world, 
That  lives  most  keenly  in  the  still  of  night, 

To  blast  the  hope  that  wrong  may  be  forgot, 
And  hound  men  on  to  some  last  work  of  might. 

MARTHA  HALE  SHACKFORD. 


T 


at  Sunset. 

HE  sun  sinks  down  behind  the  firs, 
The  soft  clouds  hang  beneath  the  sky 

All  gray  and  pink,  like  fairest  pearls 
That  in  far  beds  of  Orient  lie. 

The  distant  hilltop  glows  with  gold, 
Within  the  valley  shadows  stray, 

A  sky  all  pink :   a  story  told ; 

A  blush  where  late  a  warm  kiss  lay. 

EDITH  E.  TUXBURY. 
129 


w 


Ct  Senior  Scbebule* 

E'RE  a-studying  of  Literature 

As  hard  as  e'er  we  can ; 
We  dote  on  Revolutions 

And  the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


We're  returning  to  the  People 

With  a  truly  Lyric  Cry; 
And  for  Democratic  Spirit 

We'd  lay  us  down  and  die. 

We're  a-reading  of  Philosophy 

To  find  out  why  we  be, 
And  a-learning  that  External  Worlds 

Lie  wholly  in  the  Me. 

We  don't  believe  in  Matter, 

And  of  Mind  we're  not  quite  sure ; 

We're  inclined  to  think  Uncertainties 
Most  likely  to  endure. 

We're  a-studying  Geology 
Of  Pre-historic  Times, 
130 


Before  the  Tides  of  Primal  Sea 
Got  written  into  rhymes; 

When  the  "  Old  World  spun  forever," 

And  the  poets  never  knew  it, — 
And  all  the  Rocks,  and  Stones,  and  Things, 

Were  nicely  mixed  up  through  it. 

We're  a-looking  at  Fine  Pictures 

Made  by  People  what  are  dead; 
And  we  criticize  Cathedrals 

With  a  Ruskin  at  our  head. 

We're  a-growing  awful  learned, — 

There's  lots  more  of  the  kind, — 
But  we  do  not  mind  confessing 

That  it's  all  a  Beastly  Grind. 

MARY  HOLLANDS  MCLEAN. 

"At  Wellesley." 


T 


Sopfyomore, 


HERE  is  a  Wellesley  sophomore  bright, 

As  fair  as  a  maid  can  be  ; 
And  in  the  lore  of  the  days  of  yore 

There  are  few  so  skilled  as  she. 
But  oh  !    the  grace  of  her  winsome  face 

Is  more  than  her  learned  mind; 
And  to  all,  I  own,  save  poor  me  alone, 

Most  gracious  she  is  and  kind. 

But  oh!    this  Wellesley  sophomore  bright, 

Is  as  dull  as  a  maid  can  be, 
If  with  such  a  mind  she  cannot  find 

How  precious  she  is  to  me. 
Yet  dare  I  hope,  when  her  powers  have  scope, 

And  the  scales  fall  at  last  from  her  eyes, 
As  she  sees  my  love,  and  all  doubts  remove, 

'Twill  be  a  delightful  surprise? 

ALICE  WELCH  KELLOGG. 


132 


Oje  Song  of  tfye  £otus, 

QLEEPILY,  sleepily, 
^-^     Swaying  and  shifting, 
Drowsily,  drowsily, 

Nodding  and  drifting. 
Odors  of  spicy  balms, 
Shadows  of  Eastern  palms, 
Cobwebs  of  phantasy, 

Twining  and  twisting. 
Out  of  a  melody 

Spinning  soft  slumbers, 
Waving  a  mystery 

Into  the  numbers — 
The  river's  full  bosom 
Beneath  thee  is  swelling 

With  passion's  desire. 
Out  of  the  east,  from 
His  full-orbed  dwelling, 
Flings  the  moon-lover 

His  passion's  pure  fire. 

JULIA  STEVENS  BUFFINGTON. 


133 


in  I}eat>en, 

\  I  7 HAT  will  they  bring   thee,  Sweet,  to-morrow's 
dawn, — 

Our  three-year-old,  whose  birthday  is  in  heaven? 
For  the  earth-happiness  thou  hast  foregone 

What  will  they  do  to  make  the  balance  even? 
Do  the  grave  angels  love  as  mothers  love? 

And  is  there  one,  just  one  from  all  the  rest, 
Whose  arms  were  first  to  cradle  thee  above, 

To  whom  thou  turnest,  whom  thou  lovest  best? 

Yea,  surely  mother-hearts  in  heaven  must  beat, 

Else    'twere    not   heaven,   and   God  were   God    no 

more : 
Could  he  be  happy  in  his  holy  seat 

If  any  child  stood  homesick  near  the  door? 
Tell  that  dear  angel  that  doth  keep  our  child 

To  hold  thee  close  to-morrow,  and  to  press 
Upon  thy  brow,  grown  radiantly  mild, 

All  that  we  would  of  lingering  caress. 

Tell  her  on  earth  we  brought  thee  toys  and  flowers, 
And  told  thee  stories  when  thy  birthday  came; 


Say  to  her  that  when  thou  wast  wholly  ours, 
With  love  unspeakable  we  called  thy  name ; 

And  when  the  shadows  fell, — rememberest  thou? — 
How  thou  didst  nestle  down  in  sheltered  sleep ! 

Who  sings  to  thee?    Whose  arms  infold  thee  now? 
To  whom  has  God  my  jewel  given  to  keep? 

Be  not  unhappy,  Sweet.     Enjoy  her  care; 

Go  to  her  first  of  all  the  heavenly  host ; 
But,  oh,  do  not  forget  me,  is  my  prayer! 

I  am  thy  mother;  love  me  still  the  most. 

MARY  WRIGHT  PLUMMER. 


M 


r's  IDtsf}. 


AY  the  new  year  be  friendly  and  loving, 

And  guide  thee  a  gentle  way, 
And  with  hands  like  an  eager  lover's, 
Bring  thee  some  new  gladness  each  day. 

CLARA  BREWSTER  POTWIN. 


135 


£OPC  Song, 

DEAREST,  my  heart  is  full  of  love, 
But  I  cannot  speak  it  to-day, 
For  the  light  is  gone  from  the  sky  above, 
And  the  clouds  are  all  dark  and  gray. 

Dearest,  my  heart  is  full  of  pain, 

But  I  hide  it  deep  out  of  sight, 
For  sunshine  is  filling  the  sky  again, 

And  the  world  is  aglow  with  light. 

JOSEPHINE  P.  SIMRALL. 


WONDER  if  the  dying  leaf 

Feels  any  hint  of  pain ; 
I  wonder  if  the  with'ring  rose 

Longs  to  be  fresh  again. 

I've  wondered,  too,  if  daisies  white 

Straight  under  summer  sun, 
Or  tossed  in  rain  above  the  dust, 

Hope  that  their  life  is  done. 

MARTHA  HALE  SHACKFORD. 

136 


Ct  Seconb 


IN  the  ancient  days 
Arthur  loved  his  queen; 
Guinevere  loved  Arthur  not, 
Lost  in  love  for  Lancelot. 

Love  is  passing  sweet, 
Men  and  maidens  say; 
But  I  know  that  Guinevere 
Seeking  joy,  found  wild-eyed  fear. 

If,  dear,  one  should  think  you 
Somewhat  cold  and  high, 
One  would  be  wise  to  ponder  well 
That  seeking  fire,  one  might  find  hell. 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON. 

The  Century  Magazine, 
January,  1886. 


137 


A 


Cl  Cree=bay  Song. 

SONG  of  the  spring,  a  rhyme 
With  a  merry,  musical  chime 
Ringeth  abroad  to-day, 
Sweet  old  song  of  the  May ! 
Shy  little  flowers,  peep  through  I 
This  is  the  time  for  you. 
Listen  to  hear  the  rest 
From  the  oriole  in  the  nest! 
+» 

CHORUS. 

Out  of  the  old  is  the  new, 
Under  the  storm  is  the  blue. 
For  each  little  leaf  of  the  tree 
Shall  the  warm  May  sunshine  be. 
Fairer  the  summer  in  store 
Than  all  the  summers  before. 

Hear  the  song  of  our  tree ! 
Long  is  its  pedigree. 
Centuries  come  and  go, 
Strong  and  stern  in  the  snow 
138 


o 


Stand  the  forests  of  beech, 

Winter  and  summer  for  each. 

Listen  to  hear  the  rest 

From  the  bird  of  the  crimson  breast! 

Who  needeth  a  song?    Not  we; 
Ours  is  the  song  of  the  tree. 
Ours  is  the  song  of  the  May ; 
Sing  it  and  say  it  to-day! 
Old  is  the  earth  in  truth— 
A  dream  of  the  past  its  youth. 
The  sun  is  low  in  the  west, 
But  listen  to  hear  the  rest. 

ANNIE  JERRELL  TENNEY. 

Corot. 

(Ars  omnis  est  una.) 

POET-PAINTER,  steeped  in  Art, 
Thy  brush  has  only  been  thy  pen. 
Had  that  been  lost  thee,  then  thou  must 
Have  sung1  thy  soul  out  to  us  men. 

CLARA  BREWSTER  POTWIN. 
139 


Ctn  3rtsfy  Boat  Song* 

THE  dark  o'  the  night  was  comin'  fast, 
For  'twas  avenin'  afther  tay  was  past, 
An'  jist  the  time  when  boatin's  swate, 
An'  gals  come  down  all  dressed  so  nate, 

Bay  jabbers. 

The  capn's  were  followin'  after  the  rist, 
A  runnin'  down  hill  like  all  possist, 
An    like  an  old  tin  fish-horn  rung 
The  accints  of  the  freshmen  tongue, 

Bay  jabbers. 

The  sophs  are  a  watchin'  'em  up  on  the  shore; 
First  up  goes  one,  thin  another  oar, — 
Boats  goin'  this  way,  thin  goin'  that, 
An'  now  one  crayture's  lost  her  hat, 

Bay  jabbers. 

"  Pick  up  that  hat,"  the  cap'n  said, 
An'  jam  it  quick  on  the  top  o'  yer  head; 
For  the  way  is  long,  and  the  lake  is  wide, 
And  the  boats  must  be  hauled  up  side  by  side, 

Bay  jabbers. 
140 


Steer  shy  o'  that  sailboat  out  on  the  lake, 
Or  your  fayther'll  be  telegraphed  to  a  wake. 
That's  HunneweH's  boat,  there's  a  man  inside, 
An'  ye  must  kape  up  the  college  pride, 

Bay  jabbers. 

Wait  a  bit  now,  says  one,  and  rist, 

For  the  dress  I  have  on  is  my  very  bist; 

An'  the  boat  has  a  lake,  an'  the  wather's  high, 

An'  I'll  jist  haul  it  up  to  kape  it  dry, 

Bay  jabbers. 

The  bell  is  ringin'  for  half  past  seven, 
From  six  till  thin  is  the  time  that's  given; 
An'  they'll  have  to  row  at  an  awful  rate 
To  be  at  the  bell  at  a  quarther  of  eight, 

Bay  jabbers. 

But  with  all  their  rowin'  they  don't  get  in ; 
So  jist  to  punish  them  for  their  sin 
They  lock  them  out  of  the  beautiful  gate, 
Cos  they're  not  in  at  quarther  of  eight, 

Bay  jabbers. 
141 


So  they  sit  thim  down  on  the  cold  stone  steps, 
As  if  they  were  nothin'  but  common  Preps ; 
And  nobody  comes  to  let  thim  in, 
But  lave  them  there  to  repint  of  their  sin, 

Bay  jabbers. 

AMBIA  C.  HARRIS,  CLARA  A.  JONES. 


w 


d  Song  of  Praise* 

HEN  foes  too  strong  my  spirit  vex, 
And  meet  me  at  a  thousand  ways, 
I  boldly  lift  my  voice  and  sing 
A  song  of  praise. 


So  much  of  good  the  Father  sends, 
So  many  mercies  crown  my  days, 

I'll  aye  have  reason  to  prolong 
This  song  of  praise. 

The  powers  of  ill  can  ne'er  endure 
A  heart  attuned  to  grateful  lays; 
Like  shades  at  dawn  they  flee  before 
My  song  of  praise. 

FLORENCE  E.  HOMER. 
142 


T 


HINKEST  thou  that  a  great  distance 

Lies  between  thee  and  yon  star? 
Thy  soul's  friends,  the  best  and  dearest, 

In  their  nearness  are  as  far. 

CHARLOTTE  ROSE  STANLEY. 


L 


Consolation. 

[In  reply  to  "  Isolation."] 

OOK!     Seest  thou  yon  bright  star-beam, 
E'en  tho'  distant,  pierce  the  night? 

Ray  divine,  thy  dear  one's  friendship, 
Thro*  thy  darkness,  is  as  bright. 

AGNES  E.  WOOD. 


XJipisection. 

[F  vivisection  merely 
Afflicted  dogs,  and  such, 
Although  it  would  be  shocking, 

It  wouldn't  hurt  so  much 
As  when  a  human  coeur  is  rent 

In  twain  by  human  touch. 
I  pray  you  then  have  mercy 

On  me,  a  lover  true, 
Whose  heart,  in  bleeding  sections, 

Is  carried  off  by  you. 

FRANCES  C.  LANCE. 


Ct  Senior's  Compliment* 

"T^WAS  Saturday  night.     Three  seniors  tall 

•I     Upon  a  freshman  went  to  call. 
"What  a  lovely  room!"  the  first  one  sighed. 
'4A  perfect  gem!"  number  two  replied. 
The  third  just  glanced  at  the  fresh,  young  face, — 
"No  gem,"  said  she,  "but  a  jewel  case." 
144 


£e  Pays  bu 

[Rondel.] 

LAND  of  the  madrigal  and  ode, 
Of  rainbow  air  and  cloudless  weather, — 
Tell  me,  what  ferny,  elfin  road 

Will  lead  my  eager  footsteps  thither? 

Trick'd  out  in  gems  shall  I  go  hither? 

And  in  a  carriage  a  la  mode, 

Land  of  the  madrigal  and  ode, 
Of  rainbow  air  and  cloudless  weather? 

Or  in  the  garb  by  Love  bestow'd, 

With  roses  crowned,  and  sprays  of  heather, 
With  mandolin  and  dart  embow'd, 

Shall  Cupid  and  I  go  together — 
Land  of  the  madrigal  and  ode, 

Of  rainbow  air  and  cloudless  weather? 

ABBE  CARTER  GOODLOE. 


f}er  Second  £>egree* 

[A  Tenor  Solo.] 

SHE  was  a  Wellesley  senior; 
The  time,  Commencement  Day; 
The   spot, — nor  wood,  nor  water 

Will  e'er  her  trust  betray; 
For  there  a  gracious  future 

Stood  forth  in  glory  dressed, 
And  in  the  vision  promised 

To  answer  her  behest. 
That  selfsame  day  I  rose  from  earth, 

And,  poised  in  Harvard  sky, 
I  promptly  caught  each  winged  thought 

That  fain  would  pass  me  by. 

Exultantly  they  carolled — 

These  tho'ts  that  flew  so  high — 
"Farewell,  O  work  domestic, 

I  leave  thee  here  to  die. 
I  go  to  sweep  the  shadows 

From  human  nature's  sky; 
My  life,  my  love,  my  freedom, 
No  single  heart  can  buy. 
146 


Alone  I  search  the  world  for  truth, 

I  kneel  at  no  man's  feet; 
She  raiseth  none  who  kneels  to  one, — 

My  being  stands  complete. 

"To  this  old  rugged  earth-ball 

I  pledge  my  service  here, 
Until  the  world,  remoulded, 

Rolls  on  a  perfect  sphere. 
Then  Alma  Mater  proudly 

Shall  call   me  to  her  side, 
And  say,  'Your  greatness,  daughter, 

Is  as  the  ocean  wide; 
In  token  slight  of  deep  regard 

This  parchment  take  from  me.' 
Heart,  soul,  and  mind  spent  for  mankind, 

Shall  win  my  second  degree." 

A  dozen  years  have  flitted ; 

That  senior,  as  my  bride, 
Has  found  the  world  less  rugged 

Since  trav'ling  by  my  side; 
Her  dearest  work  domestic 

Is  for  our  children  three. 


Alas,  must  I  disclose  it, 
''Mankind"  means  chiefly  me, 
Tho*  Wellesley  has  not  called  her  yet, 

Nor  will,  that  I  can  see, — 
The  handmaid  still  of  love's  sweet  will, 

She's  won  her  Second  Degree,  M — A. 

FRANCES  C.  LANCE. 


SHALL  I  tell  you  of  my  lover, 
Brave  and  true? 
All  his  hidden  charms  discover 

To  your  view? 

Shall  I  tell  you  of  his  sweetness, 
Of  his  rich  and  full  completeness? 
But  I  can't  until  I  meet  him ; 
Now,  could  you? 

THEODORA  KYLE. 


148 


Crossing  tfye  ©cean, 

SWISH-SWASH !     Swish-swash ! 
Over  my  head  and  at  my  feet 
I  hear  the  water's  restless  beat, 
And  here  I'm  going  up,  up,  up; 
But  before  I'm  up,  I'm  down, 
And  I  wonder,  wonder  where  I  am, 
As  I  gaze  about  with  a  frown. 
On  a  shelf  in  a  box  I  seem  to  be  laid, 
And  I  query,  half  afraid, 
Am  I  freight,  or  am  I  human? 
Am  I  fish,  or  am  I  woman? 
External  tumult,  internal  commotion, — 
Tell  me,  can  this  be  crossing  the  ocean? 

CHARLOTTE  FITCH  ROBERTS. 


149 


(Easter* 

THE  sun,  arising  in  the  day's  glad  dawning, 
Shines  on  the  flowers  with  his  most  tender  rays ; 
They  know  his  power,  and,  waking,  feel  its  warning, 
And  turn  their  faces  to  his  light  in  praise. 

O  Sun  of  Righteousness,  above  us  shining, 
So  strong  in  power,  yet  gentle  in  thy  grace, 

Thou  dost  arise  on  souls  in  darkness  pining, 
And  all  the  world  must  turn  to    meet  thy  face! 

SARA  COOLIDGE  BROOKS. 


a 


YOU  are  holding  a  soul  in  your  delicate  fingers; 
O  cradle  it  well  ! 

For  the  odor  of  leaves  and  the  rose-touch  lingers 
Where  the  rose-leaf  fell. 

FLORENCE  ANNETTE  WING. 


150 


Heper  a  Day  IDttfyout  a  Cloub* 

T  T  OWEVER  so  fair  the  day  may  be, 

A  A   Some  tiny  cloud  we  can  always  see; 

Some  shadow  will  flit  across  the  sky; 

Some  dark-winged  messenger  will  draw  nigh. 

And  so  we  sigh  for  the  perfect  day, 

When  the  sun  shall  shine  with  undimmed  ray, 

Forgetting  that  all  we  so  dearly  prize 

In  the  morning  hour  or  the  sunset  skies, 

The  beauty  that  sets  our  hearts  aglow, 

Without  the  clouds,  we  never  might  know; 

Forgetting  the  summons  to  life  they  bring 

To  the  waiting  seed  in  the  dark  earth's  spring; 

Forgetting  that  fruit  from  flower  we  gain, 

When  blossoms  have  fallen  in  wind  and  rain ; 

Forgetting,  alas !  that  the  pathway  bright 

With  heavenly  promise,  appears  in  sight 

Alone  when  the  tears  of  the  rain  fall  fast, 

And  the  sun's  great  glory  has  through  them  passed. 

DELIA  MARIA  TAYLOR. 


o 


UT  on  the  lake  a  note  I  heard, — 

A  note  as  of  a  random  bird  ; 
Now  loud  it  was,  now  low,  now  high, 

Now  dying,  on  the  dying  wind. 
The  wind  itself  seemed  loath  to  die 
And  leave  so  sweet  a  sound  behind. 

The  sun  below  the  hill  sank,  red, 

A  crown  of  glory  on  his  head ; 

A  purple  cloud,  through  streaks  of  light, 

Sailed,  dreaming,  toward  the  dreaming  North, 
While  forms  of  majesty  and  might 

Against  the  blue  were  shadowed  forth. 

The  lake  itself  lay  dark  and  deep, 
Hushed  like  a  child  when  half  asleep. 
Gray-blue  beneath  the  gray-blue  arch 

A  little  boat,  with  rippling  sound, 
Stole  from  the  shadow  of  a  larch 

Into  the  evening-calm,  profound. 


Again  that  sound  upon  the  lake! 
A  shivering  echo,  half  awake, 
Moans  from  the  purple  sunset-hill ; 

A  softened  swishing  round  the  boat — 
Again  that  unexpected  trill, 

An  eastern  nightingale  afloat! 

The  sun  is  gone,  the  shadows  rise, 
The  color  fades  from  darkening  skies, 
The  single  boat  hath  reached  the  shore, 

A  single  star  appeareth  bright; 
The  single  singer  sings  no  more, — 

The  lake  is  wrapped  in  silent  night. 

KATE  WATKINS  TIBBALS. 


153 


n  College 


WHAT  golden  ways, 
Those  college  days, 
We  rode  and  rode  together! 
Leaving  behind 
The  weary  grind, 

We  wheeled  away  with  lightsome  mind 
From  cap  and  gown, 
From  student-frown, 
Into  the  autumn  weather. 


Glowing  with  sense 
Of  life  intense, 

And  zest  of  life  wild-hearted, 
Above,  we  knew 
The  sky  was  blue, 

So  on  we  fiew,  and  on  we  flew, 
The  while  the  air, 
A  champagne  rare, 

Our  sleeping  pulses  started. 


On,  spinning  faster, 

We  saw  the  aster 
Its  frosted  purples  fling 

By  wayside  wall, 

And  over  all 
The  woodbine  weave  its  scarlet  shawl; 

And,  dimmed  its  gold 

At  touch  of  cold, 
The  golden-rod  upspring. 

Then,  musing,  slow 

We  used  to  go 
When  distant  far  from  town; 

And  on  the  wold 

Leaves  manifold 
Fell,  carpeting  our  way  with  gold. 

How  loth  they  fell 

I  mind  me  well, 
How  sadly  circled  down ! 

Cathedral  shades 
The  woodland  glades 
Drew  down  upon  our  roaming, 


As,  homeward  turned, 

The  ground  we  spurned, 
While  one  white  star  above  us  burned; 

And  mystic-sober 

Became  October 
Gray  in  the  quiet  gloaming. 

Such  golden  ways, 

Those  college  days, 
We  rode  in  sun  and  breeze; 

We  left  behind 

The  weary  grind, 
And  wheeled  away  with  lightsome  mind, 

Finding  anew 

The  golden,  true 
Fabled  Hesperides. 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON. 


156 


£ist  of  Contributors* 

Margaret  Steele  Anderson,  '87-88 16 

Lillian  Corbett  Barnes,  B. A., '91 69,97,124 

Mary  Russell  Bartlett,  B.A., '79 18,74,112 

Katharine  Lee  Bates,  B.A.,  '80,  M.A.,  '91        .        13,  26,  38,  120,  128 

AlmaE.  Beale,  B.A., '91 75,  117 

Mary  Allison  Bingham,  B. A., '79      .        .        ...        .          80 

Sara  Coolidge  Brooks,  B. A., '85         .        .        .        .        .        .        150 

Julia  Stevens  Buffington,  B.S., '94     .        .      ..        ,        .        .        133 

Isabella  Campbell,  B.S., '94 •      .  83 

Mabel  A.  Carpenter,  '94-95          .        .        .        •        .        •          33,  127 
Josephine  A.  Cass,  B. A., '80       .        .        .        •        *        .    14,57,126 
Mabel  Wing  Castle,  B. A., '87    .        .        .        .        ,        .        .          51 

Florence  Converse,  B.S., '93       .        .        .        .        .        .        .         50 

Agnes  S.  Cook, '91-92          .        .        .        .•        .     ,.,        .        .         94 

Mary  S.  Daniels,  B.A.,  '86,  M.A.  (McMaster  Univ.),  '94      •          99 
Isabella  H.  Fiske,  B.A.,  '96        ...        ,.       .        .        .        102 

Nancy  K.  Foster  .        . 91 

Abbe  Carter  Goodloe,  B.S., '89  .        .        .        .        .       .          17,  145 

Cornelia  E.  Green,  B.A., '92       .        .        .        •        «        .      15, 30, 73 
Marion  Pelton  Guild,  B.A.,  '80 .        .  ,        .        .          43,  106 

Kent  Dunlap  Hagler,  B.A., '90  .        .        .        .V       .          76,118 

Arabia  C.  Harris,  '81    .        .        , 140 

Mary  HefFeran,  B.A.,  '96 19,  87 

Gertrude  Spaulding  Henderson,  B.S.,  '92         .        .        .        .        114 

Florence  E.  Homer,  B.S.,  '86 29,  142 

Anne  Barrett  Hughes,  B.S.,  '87 109,  123 

Emily  S.Johnson, '97  .........        115 

Clara  A.  Jones,  B. A., '80 22,140 


Gertrude  Jones,  B.  A., '95 m 

Alice  Welch  Kellogg-,  B.A.,  '94 64,  88,  132 

Evangeline  Kendall,  B.A.,  '96 96 

Ada  May  Krecker,  B.A., '95 41,  56 

Theodora  Kyle,  B.A.,  '91 148 

Frances  C.  Lance,  B.S.,  '92 144,  146 

Anna  Robertson  Brown  Lindsay,  B.A.,  '83,  M.A.,  '88, 

Ph.D.,  '92 25,  84 

Louise  R.  Loomis,  '97 103 

Martha  Gause  McCaulley,  B.A., '88 37 

Mary  Hollands  McLean,  B.A.,  '96  .  .  .  .  49,  98,  104,  130 
Sarah  Jane  McNary,  B.A.,  '90,  M.A.  (Univ.  of  City  of 

N.Y.),'92 100 

Mary  Otis  Malone, '98  ....  ,.  .  .  .  119 
Lillian  B.  Miner,  B. A., '88  .  .  .  ;  .  93 

Helen  Barrett  Montgomery,  B. A., '84  .  .  »  .  .20,62 
Bertha  Palmer,  B. A., '91,  M.A. , '93  .  .  »  .  .  125 

Mary  Wright  Plummer,  '81-82  .....  34,  72,  134 

Clara  Brewster  Potwin,  B.A.,  '84  .  •  .  .  95,  135,  139 

Lillian  B.  Quinby,  B. A.,  '94  .  .  .  *  .  .  -36,70 
Katharine  Mordantt  Quint,  B. A., '90  .  .  .  .  .  41 
Charlotte  Fitch  Roberts,  B.A.,  '80,  Ph.D.  (Yale),  '94  .  .  149 
Helen  Worthington  Rogers,  B.A.,  '92,  M.A.,  '93  ...  68 

Mary  Eno  Russell,  B. A., '80 116 

Martha  Hale  Shackford,  B.A., '96  .  .  .  .  .  129,136 
S.  Virginia  Sherwood,  B.A.,  '96  .  .  .  .  105 

Josephine  P.  Simrall,  B.S.,  '93 40,  82,  108,  136 

Charlotte  Rose  Stanley,  B.A., '88  .  .  .  \V  .  28,63,143 
Harriot  Brewer  Sterling,  B.S.,  '86  .  .  .  .  .  .  90 

Josepha  Virginia  Sweetser,  B. A., '90 54,  78 

Delia  Maria  Taylor,  B.A.,  '82,  M.A.,  '87 151 

Annie  Jerrell  Tenney, '82 138 

Maud  Thompson,  '94 71 

Kate  W.  Tibbals, '99 152 

Edith  E.  Tuxbury,  B.S.,  '94 129 


Sarah  Chamberlin  Weed,  B.A.,  »95 21,89,110 

Mabel  W.  White 77 

Florence  Wilkinson,  B.A.,  '92 66,  137, 154 

Florence  Annette  Wing,  B. A., '92 42,150 

Anna  Estelle  Wolfson,  '99 52 

Agnes  E.  Wood 143 

AdaS.Woolfolk,  B.S., '91 60 


CECILIA  DOCTA* 

Songs  from  "Women's  Colleges,  including  Vassar, 
Smith,  Mt*  Holyoke,  Bryn  Mawr,  Wlesley,  Wells, 
Leland  Stanford,  Pomona,  and  the  University  of 
Michigan*  $f*00  postpaid. 

ELVA  HULBURD  YOUNG, 

Springfield,  Mass* 

AT  WELLESLEY* 

Legenda  for  J896*  A  book  of  Wlesley  Stories* 
$1,00.  G*  P*  Putnam's  Sons,  Publishers* 

Address,  HELEN  F*  COOKE, 

North  Brookfield,  Mass* 

A  SONG  OF  PRAISE* 

In  memory  of  Phillips  Brooks*  Booklet  of  heavy 
cream  paper  with  card  covers,  containing  also  half- 
tone portrait  of  Bishop  Brooks*  25  cents* 

MARION  PELTON  GUILD, 

West  Roxbury,  Mass* 

WELLESLEY  LYRICS* 

$1*00 ;  postpaid,  $J*JO;  with  gilt  top,  $J*25* 
CORDELIA  C*  NEVERS, 

WeUesley,  Mass* 


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